


Necessities

by kaelabb



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Barebacking, Blood and Torture, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8814211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaelabb/pseuds/kaelabb
Summary: A series of disjointed oneshots for yakuza!au that was only supposed to be a single oneshot...chapters have individual ratings!





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Hanzo met a certain Jesse McCree, running was all the American knew. Run away from home on the reservation, run with a gang when he thought he had something to prove, run from a special ops force when it got too much. On occasion, Hanzo fears that McCree will one day run from him, and he will become just another one of the past lives that haunt McCree late at night or when he thinks he’s alone.
> 
> Hanzo thinks he has discovered a rather effective new method for assuaging that fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka sugar daddy yakuza boss Hanzo, inspired by/based on [@jagwhispers](https://twitter.com/jagwhispers) drawings/ideas on twitter.
> 
> this chapter is M.

“What’s this?” McCree takes the wrapped parcel with a suspicious frown, testing its weight in one hand.

“Only the beginning,” Hanzo replies, which by the looks of it does nothing to ease McCree’s confusion. Good. Let him wonder. “Just open it.”

He does, bushy eyebrows arching up toward his hairline as he uncovers the silver JM carved into the polished walnut box. He thumbs open the bronze clasp, air hissing through his teeth at the row of cigars nestled neatly into the velvet lining. “Shit, honey,” he murmurs, picking one out of the box and rolling it between his fingers.

“The rarest Arturo Fuente cigars I could find,” Hanzo supplies, eager to boast about the thought and time – not to mention money – that had gone into the gift. “I hope you like them.”

“I already love ‘em.” He pushes himself to his feet and leans precariously over their breakfast table to leave a kiss on Hanzo’s forehead, knocking his reading glasses askew. “Thank you, sweetpea.”

Hanzo hums and hides a smile behind a sip of tea, pleased he’s so touched by the gift. “You’re welcome.” He puts his cup back down and readjusts his glasses. “As I said, they are just the beginning.” He thoroughly enjoys how quickly the deep furrow returns to McCree’s face. He maintains an adamant silence until McCree gives up his interrogation about the subject, pretending to pout as best a man edging toward 40 is capable of pouting. Which isn’t much, so Hanzo picks up his folded newspaper and resumes his breakfast unfazed.

When Hanzo met a certain Jesse McCree, running was all the American knew. Run away from home on the reservation, run with a gang when he thought he had something to prove, run from a special ops force when it got too much. On occasion, Hanzo fears that McCree will one day run from him, and he will become just another one of the past lives that haunt McCree late at night or when he thinks he’s alone.

Hanzo thinks he has discovered a rather effective new method for assuaging that fear.

He takes care of the breakfast dishes while McCree showers. He could afford to live in a fully staffed estate in the hills, easily in fact, but he prefers to be closer to the hub of his business, and anyway, he does not consider himself a particularly extravagant man.

So one of the largest penthouses in one of the most expensive parts of the city suits him just fine. Of course, he then had to buy the rest of the building and personally screen the other tenants for security purposes. But it’s modest compared to the estate.

Once the dishes are in the washer, he does his eyeliner and dresses in one of his plainer Armanis, and McCree has his first smoke of the day on the balcony – one of his usual cheap cigarillos, not the new cigars, because “smoke that good’s gotta go with just the right moment.” From inside the door he watches McCree clad in jeans and nothing else, his back littered with dark freckles and soft folds and an old scar or two. He’s bent over to lean his elbows on the railing and stare out at the city. His prosthetic left forearm dangles over the rail, sheathed in a silicone glove (too stiff and unblemished to fool any but the most unobservant passersby).

Hanzo steps out to join him. “It is cold today,” he chides, “You will catch your death out here if you do not put on a shirt.” He rests his cheek between McCree’s shoulder blades and slings his arms around his hips. The hair on his belly tickles Hanzo’s wrists as he locks his fingers together, securing himself to the man’s warm bulk. Such quiet, intimate moments are fleeting, snuck in between meetings and in the back of town cars. He thinks he could get used to them being a little longer.

“I have asked Jiro to handle any problems that arise today.” He squeezes McCree’s middle before loosening and stepping back to lean next to him on the railing. “I have plans for the day. For us.”

“Oh yeah?” He takes a long draw from his cigarillo.

“Yes.” He gives McCree a smack on the upper arm and starts back inside. “And the car will arrive shortly, so put on a shirt.”

Once McCree finally moves his ass and finishes dressing, they take the elevator downstairs and meet Hanzo’s personal driver. “Do I get to know where we’re going?” he asks, knocking his knee against Hanzo’s. He always spreads his knees in the car to accommodate his long legs. Hanzo hardly minds.

“No.” He taps his fingers against McCree’s thigh absently as he tells the driver their destination in Japanese. McCree is learning, picking up the language with a speed that suggests he has an untapped talent, and Hanzo probably doesn’t have much longer to keep things from McCree by using his native tongue. Best to take advantage of it now while he still can.

Their first stop is near the edge of town near the waterfront, where bridges hang over the lower buildings in the warehouse district. “Gonna have me wacked out here, boss?” McCree asks over the car as they climb out on separate sides.

Hanzo snorts, leading him to the storefront. “If I wanted you dead, it would look like an accident, certainly not somewhere you have never been before. Too conspicuous.” He glances over his shoulder at McCree and grins, flashing his teeth. “And I would not have you killed. I would do it myself.”

“Good to know.” McCree grabs the door when Hanzo opens it, entering the shop close on his heels. Mannequins line the walls, racks of clothes in rows throughout the room and covering one wall from floor to ceiling. The woman at the counter looks up, but when she sees Hanzo she turns back to her magazine and waves them on toward a door in the back.

There he introduces McCree to the tailor Saburo, a stooped older man who bows deeply and speaks quietly to Hanzo. Saburo is one of the best tailors in the city, Hanzo’s own go-to for his wardrobe – he also pays a considerable amount of protection money.

Hanzo turns to McCree. “Stand there and keep still, he needs to take your measurements. His English is not very good.” However reluctantly, McCree obeys, and the tailor studies him imperiously for a moment before clicking his tongue and setting himself to work while Hanzo watches from the side. 

Saburo mutters to Hanzo over his shoulder as he kneels to measure McCree’s leg. “He asked what side you dress on.”

He blinks at Hanzo. “What?”

Hanzo swallows a longsuffering sigh. “What side is your penis on, McCree,” he rephrases, deadpan.

“Oh. Uh, the right.” He clears his throat while Hanzo translates, and the tailor takes McCree’s inseam on his left leg. “Is this really necessary?” McCree complains, shifting his weight between his feet, which elicits a grumble from the tailor.

“Yes.” Hanzo folds his arms across his chest and smiles. “You are my head of security, and I have an image to maintain. You ought to have something with a little more elegance than your usual rags.”

McCree frowns and doesn’t fight back against Hanzo’s teasing with the ferocity he usually does. “What’s wrong with the suit I got?”

“Nothing,” Hanzo lies. Ill-fitting and cheap. “But you need more than one suit.”

McCree huffs, the short harsh “huh” that means he doesn’t buy it, and steps down once the tailor finishes with his measuring tape and backs away. “If you say so, darling.” Saburo shows them his selection of fabrics, bolts stacked together and shelved along the back wall, and McCree chooses a charcoal gray with a burgundy silk for the waistcoat.

Hanzo smiles, pleased with himself, as he watches the way McCree lingers over the silk with calloused fingers. He should have done this long ago. “You should get another one.”

He shakes his head and draws his hand away from the bolt of fabric. “Nah, I really don’t need more than one.”

“Saburo.” Hanzo looks over to where the man is calculating their order. “We’ll be ordering two suits, actually.” He nudges McCree. “What else do you like?”

McCree stares at him for a second like he’s trying to solve a riddle, then scans his eyes over the shelves. He scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know, that blue is nice…” Hanzo waves the tailor over and points it out for the second suit. McCree insists he doesn’t want three when Hanzo asks (“Hanzo, please, this is plenty.”), so he pays, and they head back out to where the car waits.

“You don’t have any more poking and prodding planned for today, do you?” McCree asks once the car starts moving.

“Only some.” Hanzo smirks and distracts him by discussing an upcoming business trip to the United States, which McCree is particularly excited for, even if they won’t be seeing his home turf in New Mexico. California is close enough that getting him talking about it is easy, and he quickly forgets he was displeased with their outing.

Their next stop is a shopping mall in the heart of town. McCree peers out the window. “What’re we doing here?”

“Whatever you would like,” Hanzo answers. Judging by the expression on his face, it is not the answer McCree wanted.

“Come on, honey, I don’t need anything here.” Hanzo frowns, a little surprised he still isn’t understanding this. So he takes the lead, making their first stop a cosmetics boutique where he makes McCree sample colognes until he selects one Hanzo is pleased with, something warm and musky that suits him and makes Hanzo’s stomach coil a little. His influence on the choice isn’t entirely selfless.

He also buys McCree bath salts and incense, which he claims he’ll never use but accepts good-naturedly anyway. He resists when Hanzo picks up facial moisturizer. “Trying to tell me I don’t wash good enough?”

“It’s not about cleanliness. It’s about taking better care of yourself.” McCree stares at him. He doesn’t understand, but Hanzo adds it to their purchases anyway. He’ll try to show him later.

From there they pick up a bottle of bourbon, which McCree is far more enthusiastic about. Then Hanzo catches wind of a music shop with instruments on the third floor. “You can play the guitar, can you not? You should get a new guitar.” Hanzo would like to hear him play, being on the road had not allowed him to keep such a bulky instrument. Now he has a whole penthouse at his disposal where he is free to keep belongings.

“Damn, it’s been years since I touched a guitar, Hanzo. I’m good.” He waves his right hand dismissively.

“We can get a left-handed guitar,” Hanzo argues, but McCree is adamant. He sighs and checks his watch. 12:27, damn. “We need to be going anyway. We have an appointment in a half-hour.”

“We do?” Hanzo calls his driver to come pick them up again as they make their way back to the front. They don’t wait long for the car to come around, McCree putting their bags in the trunk as Hanzo gives the driver the address. “What kind of appointment do we have, exactly?”

“You will see shortly,” Hanzo assures him, and he’s about to add that McCree may as well give up asking when his phone buzzes from his jacket pocket. He frowns and pulls it out, frown deepening when he sees the caller ID. At his side, McCree lights a cigarillo and rolls the window down to keep the smoke out, giving him space to take the call.

“I asked you not to contact me today,” he growls in Japanese when he answers. His senior advisor Jiro is, at least, appropriately apologetic for interrupting him. “What is it?” As he listens, he doesn’t notice he’s squeezing his own leg hard enough to hurt until McCree pries his fingers away and twines their hands together instead. He sighs and rolls his shoulders, trying to work tension out, and gives Jiro terse instructions to handle it until tomorrow.

“What happened?” McCree cocks an eyebrow at him as he hangs up.

Hanzo heaves a breath in and out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Some fucking idiot in Tokyo robbed a convenience store, and I am getting sued for it.”

McCree winces. “Damn.”

“This cannot be allowed to happen,” Hanzo continues, fury sparking behind his eyes, “It damages my reputation with the community, invites the government to meddle in my affairs… I must make an example of him.”

McCree untangles their hands to wrap his arm behind Hanzo’s shoulders, kneading his fingertips into the back of his neck. Hanzo closes his eyes and leans into it. “Sounds like some kid got stupid.”

He presses his lips together. “That is no excuse,” he mutters, though the heat has seeped out of his voice. McCree had been a kid that got stupid. He appears unbidden behind Hanzo’s eyelids, a spitfire teenager a hundred pounds scrawnier and a full beard less hairy, trying to prove his guts instead of his brains. A flush of tenderness gnaws at his resolve. “The old oyabun would not tolerate—”

“You’re not him,” McCree reminds him. “And things ain’t like they were in his time. You got lawmen breathing down your back more than ever, and recruitment’s down, remember? Can’t afford to lose what men you got.”

Hanzo relents. “What do you suggest, then?”

He shrugs, taps ash out the window. “Bring the kid here, maybe. Where you can keep a closer eye on him. If he fucks up again, we can do something about it. Merciful but fair.”

“Weak,” Hanzo grunts, “I will appear weak.” He cracks his eyes open and turns to look up at McCree. “Your soft heart will come back to bite you eventually.”

McCree chuckles and kisses his head. “I know, boss.” Hanzo settles, holding McCree’s knee, reminding himself of his goal for the day. Lawsuits take time, it does not need his attention today. He has more important matters at hand.

In another fifteen minutes they reach a massive white hotel. Their driver drops them off in front of the door, which opens into a wide lobby with high ceilings and polished tile floors. A handful of other people mill about, men on business trips and wealthy tourists and hotel employees, voices and footsteps bouncing in the big space. Hanzo doesn’t hesitate, striding to the bank of elevators. McCree sticks close behind him.

They travel in silence to the ninth floor, finding room 908 down the hall and around the corner. Hanzo checks his watch (12:54) and knocks on the door.

A tall, angular woman answers quickly, a polite smile on her face and her dark hair in a tight controlled bun. She wears a pressed navy blue skirt suit and white gloves. “You must be Mr. Shimada,” she says, mirroring his quick bow, “You’re early. Come in.” She steps aside to let them into the living room of a two-room suite that doesn’t look like anyone is occupying it, everything immaculate and gleaming like the hotel’s maids had just left.

“This is Jesse McCree, the man I spoke to you about.”

She smiles and nods, and he tips his hat in return, uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McCree. My name is Satya Vaswani.” She closes the door and gestures them toward the couch and armchair, which are set around a coffee table and arranged next to the window. “Please, take a seat.”

“Miss Vaswani is an engineer with Vishkar, one of the most prominent biomedical research facilities in the world.” Hanzo sits down in the armchair, forcing McCree to sink down onto the couch next to the engineer, who perches on the edge with her knees close together and her back straight.

“Mr. Shimada emailed me two months ago to discuss designing a new prosthetic for your arm. Would you mind if I take a look?” He glances at Hanzo, not long enough for Hanzo to discern what the look on his face is supposed to mean, before he unbuttons his shirt and pulls off first his left sleeve and then the silicone glove. She lifts his forearm, testing its weight, and asks to see how much he can move it. He opens and closes his hand, turns his wrist.

She releases him and lets him put the glove back on. “It’s an elbow disarticulation, correct? An amputation? All the proper EMG signals are reaching the prosthetic, so there’s no reason a more advanced prosthesis wouldn’t work, and it would be much easier and more controlled.” She pulls her white glove off her left hand. Her hand is silicone like McCree’s and black. Prosthetic. “I was born without my left arm. Thanks to Vishkar’s prosthetics, I can control all five digits with precision.” To demonstrate, she curls her pinky, ring, and middle fingers, and then picks up a pen from the coffee table. She glances at Hanzo. “They are, however, quite expensive—“

“Money is not a problem.” He leans forward, clasping his hands together. “When can you begin designing?”

“Now wait a second,” McCree interrupts, buttoning his shirt. “I don’t know about this. This old thing might not be very fancy, but it’s suited me just fine all these years. This ain’t necessary.” He stands up.

Hanzo frowns up at him, pointedly remaining in his seat. “Perhaps not, but that is beside the point. It could be far more functional, more durable.” 

McCree turns to Satya and offers her a smile. “Thank you kindly, ma’am, for coming all this way to talk to us, but I don’t think this is for me.” With that, he heads for the door in three long-legged strides.

“Please, excuse us,” Hanzo says, rising to follow McCree. He catches him at the elevators, bouncing on his heels and glowering at the metallic doors like that will open them faster. “McCree!” Hanzo calls as soon as he rounds the corner. McCree doesn’t look at him. Hanzo reaches him and grabs him by the sleeve, tugging, desperation beginning to claw up his throat. “Jesse, please, look at me.”

He sighs, shoulders slumping, and looks down at Hanzo. “I don’t need a new arm, Hanzo,” he says, pleading. “You don’t have to do this. Especially with the lawsuit, you shouldn’t just be throwing money around.”

“I am not throwing money around,” he huffs, letting go of McCree’s shirt. The elevator chimes and slides open. “I want to do this for you.” McCree pulls a sour face. “Can we go somewhere and talk about it?” 

They find a restaurant just a couple buildings down and across the street. Hanzo pays the waiter a generous premature tip to convince him they can have the private room usually meant for parties or business meetings. It’s a small room, with bamboo walls and a long table with booth seating against the wall on one side and chairs lined along the other. Hanzo slides into the booth, and McCree sits next to him. He orders a bottle of hot sake and waits until they have it to address McCree. “All right. What is the problem?”

McCree takes a deep breath and scrubs his right hand over his face, swallowing a cup of sake before he begins. “Look, Hanzo, I know this ain’t about professionalism ‘cause you didn’t have any complaints when you hired me in the first place. About the arm, or the clothes, or anything else.” He folds his arms together, rubbing the fake skin on his left forearm. Hairless and a shade too light to match his skin tone. “All this ain’t what I signed up for. I know you got your image, but I didn’t think being with you meant I needed to get all gussied up and paraded around like some kind of goddamn trophy wife…”

“Is that what you think this is?” Hanzo sets his cup down slowly, eyes on McCree. He fidgets and shrugs. Hanzo’s stomach tightens, wringing itself together. He’s gone about this completely wrong. He messed up. “Jesse McCree, you are no one’s trophy.” He curls his fingers around McCree’s hand, squeezes them tightly. “You are…”

“Boyfriend” is for people far younger than them. “Lover” is too casual. Neither encompasses with the proper depth the way McCree doesn’t bat an eye over the messier aspects of his business, or the way he knows when Hanzo needs space from others, even McCree himself. The way he holds him, purring Spanish lullabies in his ear, after the nightmares that have persisted even after his brother was found in a Nepali monastery. The way his thick arms encircle Hanzo effortlessly, anchoring him to reality when everything becomes too much.

The way he massages Hanzo’s neck and cools him down, offering advice and giving him perspective when his anger would get the better of him. 

“You are my partner,” he finishes, meeting McCree’s gaze. “I could not have gotten this far without you. We were meant to rule together.” He clasps both hands around McCree’s, bringing it up to press his lips to his knuckles.

McCree sighs and nods. “I just thought I was already…” He wrinkles his nose and drops his gaze to their entwined hands, uncomfortable saying it aloud. “Good enough.”

Hanzo can nearly hear his heart break. That he will not let stand. In one swift motion he pushes himself out of his seat and swings his leg over McCree’s, ignoring the “Whoa now,” as he straddles his lap. “Do not say such things,” he demands, gripping the collar of his flannel shirt in both hands, dragging him in close. “You are more than enough. More than I could hope for.” He crushes his mouth against McCree’s, fierce enough to destroy any other self-doubts that might fester on his tongue.

He breaks away and leans into McCree’s ear to whisper, “I love you, Jesse.” He drags his mouth down to his neck, kissing the pulse pounding just beneath his skin. The cologne burns in Hanzo’s nose, flaring straight down to the pit of his stomach. McCree exhales long and slow like he’s trying to steady himself, but Hanzo isn’t about to let him retain his composure that easily. He has a point to prove now. He slides one hand between them and tugs on McCree’s belt buckle.

“Okay, Jesus,” he hisses, wedging his hand between them to undo the buckle, “Is this really the best place, baby?”

“I am not waiting to go anywhere else,” is Hanzo’s reply, delving further into McCree’s pants until he’s hissing through his teeth. Hanzo presses a tender kiss just underneath his jaw. “There will always be more money,” he continues, “I only have one Jesse McCree.”

“Sweetheart,” he whines, gripping the back of Hanzo’s thigh with his left hand and curling his fingers into Hanzo’s hair with the other. He breathes shakily and, quieter, whispers, “Say it again. About ruling.”

Hanzo hums against his neck. “We rule together.” He twists his wrist, adjusting his grip. McCree huffs. “Jesse McCree, you are one of the most powerful men in all of Japan.”

His hand in Hanzo’s hair tightens. “Fuck, Hanzo,” he grits out, tensing under him. Hanzo pulls away from the crook of his neck to kiss him through it, tasting sake and ash on his tongue. He sighs and melts back against the seat. Without straying from McCree’s lap, Hanzo twists around to grab a handful of napkins from the table and cleans off his hand, then McCree. Only after another, softer kiss does he climb off and let McCree collect himself and button his pants. As he does, Hanzo discreetly flicks the inside of his wrist to get his blood flowing elsewhere.

He gets to his feet, smooths out his suit jacket, and fixes his ponytail. “Now. Will you come back with me and at least speak to Miss Vaswani?”

He heaves himself up with a grunt. “Okay, all right. You got me,” he says as he tucks his shirt back in, “But from now on let’s keep the surprises to a modest three grand, okay?”

Hanzo smirks. “I promise.” He pours the rest of the sake into his cup and drains it, and leaves cash on the table to cover their bill. Their waiter is standing right outside the door, looking uncomfortable. Hanzo smiles at him, unashamed, and gives him another 2000 yen for not interrupting.

They return to Satya’s hotel room, where McCree makes amends for his abrupt departure. She takes measurements (McCree cracks several jokes about being measured so much in one day, pointing out that Hanzo has never been dissatisfied with his measurements before, and Satya smiles graciously through them while Hanzo resists the urge to strangle him) and discusses aesthetic and technical options, specific functionality goals, and a rough timeline.

“I will draw up some plans and be in contact shortly with more details.” She escorts them to the door. “It was nice to meet you both.”

“Thank you, Miss Vaswani,” Hanzo says with another bow, and McCree shakes her hand and tells her to have a good day. Seeing his good humor return is a relief.

Hanzo calls his driver as they work their way back down to the lobby, and while they wait on the curb he makes a second call that only lasts a moment. McCree cocks a questioning brow at him. “I had a reservation for dinner tonight.” He pockets his phone. “I think a quiet night in is more appealing right now.”

McCree grins, the one that starts as a slow smile and ends with crooked teeth and deep wrinkles around his eyes, and brushes his hand briefly against the small of Hanzo’s back. “I think I can get on board with that.” Hanzo pulls his jacket closer around himself to hide a shiver. Infinitely more appealing.

Once they arrive at their building Hanzo dismisses the driver for the day, and they maintain a respectable distance from each other through the ground floor and into the elevator, only occasionally bumping elbows as they walk side by side.

McCree kicks his boots off in the foyer, and Hanzo sets them upright next to each other and lines his dress shoes next to them. He catches up to McCree in the kitchen, placing the new bourbon on the minibar. “Come,” Hanzo purrs, shrugging out of his suit jacket. McCree grins and follows. 

Hanzo’s bedroom was his sanctuary, a retreat from and stronghold against the stress and chaos of the world, held together with a calming blue palette and minimal, traditional décor. He hadn’t really noticed when it began to change a year ago; a tattered red poncho (“Serape,” he was corrected.) regularly flung over the back of a chair, a horseshoe hanging over the door (“Where the hell did that come from?” he asked. “It’s good luck, everyone can use a little more luck,” was the only answer he got), a set of pillows firmer than Hanzo liked. McCree hadn’t moved in so much as he simply stopped leaving. The dash of discordance that McCree introduced had, to Hanzo’s surprise, only empowered the serenity he found here. Bits and pieces of the man himself, shreds of his gravelly voice and calloused hands.

Hanzo loosens his tie. “Get on the bed,” he instructs, dropping the tie on the floor, smiling when McCree obeys. He climbs on after him, hovers over him. “Just lay back, relax.” He kisses McCree’s brow. “Let me take care of you.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” McCree moans as Hanzo unbuttons his shirt, kisses trailing shortly after each button. He unclasps his belt, and McCree lifts his hips so the jeans can come off. Hanzo shucks them to the floor and lifts his right calf to kiss his ankle and up his leg, nipping the soft underside of his knee before continuing inside his thigh. McCree’s breath hitches when Hanzo reaches his groin. He lavishes attention on McCree, paying attention to every squirm and noise and responding with fervor.

McCree hisses, “ _Oh_ goddamn,” when Hanzo presses his thumb inside. “ _Hanzo._ ” He knows that tone and disengages carefully. Always so excitable.

“Shh.” Hanzo sits up and pets his heaving chest on the way to lean over to the bedside table, where they stash lube and condoms. He takes off his shirt, kicks his pants and underwear off the side of the bed, and resumes his place between McCree’s legs.

He proceeds carefully, bending over McCree to sprinkle kisses over his torso as he occupies both hands with him, one around him and the other stretching from inside. When McCree shifts his hips, Hanzo straightens up and pushes his legs a little further open, props one ankle on his shoulder for a better angle. He strokes his hand up and down the outside of McCree’s thigh as he hesitates a moment to simply look at him, affection tightening his stomach.

McCree inhales with a soft hiss when Hanzo eases in. Sensitive. Hanzo leans forward to kiss him soundly, McCree’s sigh at the change of angle melting into Hanzo’s breath. He pulls away just enough to whisper, “You are beautiful.” He presses a kiss to McCree’s forehead – creased with the beginnings of wrinkles. “You are intelligent, and kind, and gentle.”

He kisses his right eyebrow, where an old scar cuts through the coarse hair, a reminder that at some point McCree had been millimeters from losing an eye or worse. Hanzo had been millimeters from never having him. “You are a _good man_.” He kisses his left cheek, scruff prickling against his lips, which he’d once thought looked shabby and uncouth, until a toothy grin cut through the beard and punched him in the gut with roguish charm and a smoky belly-deep laugh.

He kisses McCree’s mouth again (chapped, rough, tinged with tobacco) and ducks his head into the curve of McCree’s neck. “I do not deserve you,” he whispers into his skin. McCree huffs, and Hanzo knows a protest will quickly follow, so he adjusts his position and refocuses his effort to make his point physically, tender and slow. McCree moans his name and balls a fist in the bedspread, unaccustomed to such sweetness when Hanzo takes control. Hanzo knows exactly where his breaking point is, where he will get overwhelmed and lose himself, and he carefully skirts around it.

“Today, I wanted you to see… what you mean to me,” he goes on. His ribs nearly crack under the pressure swelling in his chest. It aches, threatens to tear him apart from the inside out, but then McCree opens his eyes and meets his gaze, and the pressure eases. “There is nothing I would not give for you.”

He looks awed. Mystified. His lips part like he wants to say something, but all he gets out is a soft, “Oh, Hanzo, baby.”

Hanzo exhales carefully past the stone lodging itself in his throat. He bends over to touch their foreheads together, breath mingling, as he murmurs, “Jesse.” McCree arches and grapples to feel as much of Hanzo’s body as he can, and Hanzo crashes with him. Little deaths. He would suffer through a thousand real ones for the sake of McCree’s smile, he would cause a million to keep McCree safe and at his side. Hanzo sighs and brushes his lips over McCree’s one last time for a light kiss before slipping away to lie next to him.

Past McCree, he can see the scroll painting that hangs on the wall, a family heirloom and the origin of his chosen motif, a convenient image of power to instill respect in his people. A blue dragon coiling up a waterfall and reaching for the heavens.

He is no dragon, at least not one of the benevolent or wise beings in his childhood stories. He is selfish and possessive, hoarding McCree all to himself like a stolen treasure. Capable and more than willing to rain destruction on anyone who would threaten it. One of the Western creatures, fiery and greedy. Beside him, McCree hums contentedly and curls around him, threading fingers into Hanzo’s hair. So be it; he will be a Western dragon then.

“Ain’t never been one for settling down,” McCree says, conversationally, like the words don’t send a shock of paranoia through Hanzo’s chest, “But I reckon I never had something worth settling down for.” He nuzzles the top of Hanzo’s head. “Seems like it sure could be nice, though.”

“I’m glad,” Hanzo responds, sliding a hand up McCree’s hip, pulling his warm bulk closer. “Although I don’t believe most would consider shacking up with an oyabun to be ‘settling down.’”

McCree laughs into his hair, deep and raspy, scraping across Hanzo’s senses in a way that never fails to make him shiver. “Haven’t ever really liked doing things the way most people do.” Hanzo squirms in his arms, and he kisses his scalp before letting him sit up. 

“Stay in bed,” Hanzo urges gently, pushing McCree’s chest to keep him down when he starts to sit up. “I am simply ordering in something to eat.” He climbs off the bed and heads out of the bedroom, slinging a bathrobe around his shoulders and picking his boxers off the floor as he goes.

He isn’t gone long, but when he returns with the new bourbon and two glasses in hand he finds McCree already disobeyed his instruction. “I thought those were only for special occasions,” he points out as McCree selects a cigar from his box and ambles back to the bed. He sets the glasses down on the bedside table and pours into the glass with ice first, which he hands to McCree, and then pours neat for himself.

“I spent the day with the prettiest piece of ass this side of the Pacific and got treated like a goddamn princess. I reckon that’s special enough.” He clips and lights the cigar, grinning toothily around it as Hanzo nestles against his side. Hanzo plucks the cigar from his mouth and takes a short drag, testing it. Better than McCree’s usual smokes by far, though not particularly to Hanzo’s taste. He pulls another lungful and hands it back.

“I had even more planned,” Hanzo admits, and McCree arches an eyebrow at him curiously. “I found an adult store with an impressive inventory.”

He laughs, stubbing out his cigar so he can throw his arms around Hanzo and roll them both over. “The adult store will be there another day.” His big hands roam everywhere, cover everything at once, and Hanzo tries futilely to push him back; he’s supposed to be treating McCree, dammit, not the other way around. “For now, just each other ain’t so bad.”

He’s right, Hanzo thinks as McCree takes a handful of ass and a mouthful of pectoral, each other is all they need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17 minutes, 28 seconds.
> 
> That was how long he’d been out of Hanzo’s sight. That was how long it took to take him.
> 
> That was how long Hanzo planned to make them suffer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted as the second part of the series, but since there's apparently going to be a million other parts, I'm just going to make them chapters of the same work instead...
> 
> This chapter is M.

17 minutes, 28 seconds.

That was how long he’d been out of Hanzo’s sight. That was how long it took to take him.

That was how long Hanzo planned to make them suffer.

Under normal circumstances, he would have sent others to take care of this; the point of being the boss was that you could stay well behind the front lines. But this requires a personal touch, so Hanzo had gone in alone, hadn’t told anyone else. He wouldn’t be long. He hadn’t made it to the top by mere chance, after all, he could handle some things himself.

Hanzo prowls down the alleyway and around the corner to reach the back of the shitty motel. He tries the back door; locked, which isn’t surprising (never hurts to doublecheck). Taking a step back, he peers up the face of the building. Five stories of red brick with a fire escape hanging from the second floor, the ladder 3 meters above Hanzo’s head. Easy.

He drops his small backpack off his shoulder, stripping down to his underwear and replacing his business attire with joggers, climbing shoes, and gripped gloves. The bag also holds a shoulder holster and gun, which he straps on and covers with a sweatshirt, and a few other items that he stows into his pockets. He leaves the backpack in the alley to retrieve later and stands up. Time to get to work.

He backs up, bounces lightly on his knees, and vaults forward. Digs his toes against the rough wall and reaches for a handhold, digging his fingertips on the edge of a brick. He slips, his grip poor, and manages to grab the lowest rung on the fire escape ladder before he can fall. His shoulder burns against the rest of his weight; he sucks a breath between his teeth, swings his other arm up for a grip, and heaves himself up. Goddamn, _goddamn_.

Once he scales the ladder and climbs over the railing onto the platform, he pauses for a breath. He’s losing his edge. Been too long since he was out on the streets like this. Hanzo rolls his shoulders, which will probably be sore come morning because of this. He needs to be more rigorous about keeping himself in top shape. He’ll blame McCree for letting him lapse.

The tracker in McCree’s phone went offline almost as soon as he was gone; they had disabled it, or destroyed the phone altogether. It doesn’t matter. Crouching on the fire escape, Hanzo pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens the innocuous app designed for paranoid parents, which McCree had laughed about when he downloaded it.

The marker that had led him here is only a few millimeters away on the screen. Southwestern corner of the building. It can’t tell him what floor, but it’s a start. He produces his switchblade from inside his jacket and unlocks the nearest window.

He comes out into a modest room, dark and quiet, the two full-sized beds made neatly. Unoccupied. He puts away the switchblade and flicks the buckle on his shoulder holster.

The pistol he unholsters is a small black semi-automatic, a far cry from the massive revolvers McCree likes. McCree is a man of brute strength, overpowering his opponents with sheer size, but Hanzo prefers to do things with a little more subtlety. He withdraws a silencer from his pocket and screws it into place.

They had the gall to contact him immediately afterward, dared to explain McCree would be free as soon as Hanzo transferred funds into an offshore account. All they asked for was money. Fucking amateurs, made him sick. He doesn’t know who they are or if they are working with anyone else, but he will deal with them just the same.

He works his way up the building slowly, knocking on doors closest to McCree’s location on his screen. With the gun behind his back, he apologizes over and over again for the disturbance (he tells them he lost his dog in the neighborhood, wonders if they’ve seen it. It’s not a terribly solid cover, but at this hour no one will pay enough attention to poke holes in it. They want him to leave as much as he does). A few doors go unanswered, and those he picks the locks and inspects just long enough to ensure the room is truly empty.

On the fifth floor he finds them.

Beyond the door, shuffling and soft voices rise and abruptly die down again when he knocks. No one comes near the door. Satisfied and as certain as he can be that this is the right place, he retraces his steps all the way back to the fire escape, where he climbs three levels of metal stairs. He looks out over the right side, studying the windows. The third down should be attached to the same room.

Hanzo swings himself over the railing, takes a deep breath, and climbs out onto the side of the building. A row of bricks jut out from the rest just below the windows, an aesthetic touch and convenient handhold that saves Hanzo a great deal of effort, which he is infinitely thankful for. Once he’s underneath the third window, he pulls himself up just enough to peer inside. Four men sitting on the floor in the middle of the room playing cards, one on the bed asleep, one slouched next to the room’s phone. A chair is jammed against the bathroom door. Then he catches sight of an odd shape lying on top of the table. His throat tightens; McCree’s prosthesis.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and hurls himself forward.

His shoulders hit the window, and he rolls through it, glass prickling at his back. He lands and has a foot swinging out to crack into someone’s jaw before the rest of them can scramble to stand. 

He may as well be barefoot with these shoes on, they won’t offer any protection from breaking a bone. One of them tries to throw a punch before he’s properly balanced, and Hanzo makes quick work grabbing him by the wrist and throwing him on his back, stomping on the man’s throat for good measure.

They try to flank him; a man with a crooked nose manages to grab his elbow while the one who’d been on the bed swings his fist. Hanzo struggles, jabbing his elbow into his captor’s stomach, while the hit probably meant for his nose catches him on the right cheek. He hisses and manages to escape, scrambling back a couple steps. Just enough elbow room. He draws his gun and fires off two shots.

One bullet buries in the crooked nose man’s chest, and the other catches the guy who punched him in the stomach. He turns his attention to the remaining two, but he’s not fast enough. While he was distracted, one of them circles and lunges for his side, the other going for a chair at the room’s small table. Hanzo squeezes off a round into the first one’s arm before he’s thrown off his feet.

He scrabbles for his gun, knocked out of his hand. The guy kicks him in the ribs, hard enough to make him recoil. He curls, rolls away, gets his switchblade out of his pocket. The man cries out when Hanzo stabs the knife into his ankle, feeling resistance where it scrapes against bone. Then the chair comes down on his back.

White light flashes in front of his eyes. He gasps. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man going for his fallen gun. Hanzo grabs for the one he stabbed, on the floor clutching his leg, and tears the blade out, slippery with blood. He lurches to his feet and stabs him shallowly in the back, making him cry out and twist toward him. Hanzo’s gun is in his hand; he cracks the butt of it against his head, quicker than trying to get the gun between them and fire.

Hanzo lodges the knife in his side. He snarls, face contorted in pain and anger, this time reeling back to aim the gun at him. But now he’s only running on adrenaline, adrenaline that’s quickly leaking out through the wound in his side, and Hanzo wrestles for control until the gun falls from his hand and he slumps over.

Hanzo staggers back, takes a slow breath, takes stock. Two dead (lucky), three incapacitated (one gasping for air and coughing blood, one slowly bleeding out through his gut, one shot in the arm and stabbed in the leg. None of them are going anywhere), one gone (made the wise decision to abandon the cause and run). Blood drips steadily from his hand, still tight around his knife.

Blood sings in his ears. Every nerve in his body is alive, sparking hot and hypersensitive, adrenaline numbing his wounds and making him feel light as air. He shivers. He’d forgotten just how _good_ it feels, too spoiled by the luxury of authority and security to remember how enrapturing, intoxicating, it is to risk death and come out victorious. His giddy smile makes the split in his lip sting.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows the smart thing to do is take care of the three still alive first. Instead he picks his away around the bodies to the other side of the room, grabbing the prosthesis when he passes the table, and dislodges the chair from the bathroom door.

McCree looks up from the floor of the bathroom when Hanzo opens the door. His right eye is bruised and swollen shut, the stump of his left arm exposed, a gag stuffed in his mouth, his right wrist cuffed to an exposed pipe. He looks vulnerable. The sight makes Hanzo think he could go out and kill them all right now. He surges forward and extricates the gag, an old hand towel, from his mouth. “Aw sweet baby Jesus, Hanzo, so good to see you,” he rasps. Hanzo silences him with a possessive kiss, holding his face in both hands.

Adrenaline still pounds just beneath the surface of his skin. He has to move, act, _do_ something. McCree draws back with a soft gasp, staring at him, blood from Hanzo’s hand smeared along one cheek. Something visceral latches onto Hanzo’s stomach and tugs. He kisses him again, more insistent, sucking McCree’s lower lip between his teeth.

“Whoa, whoa, Hanzo,” McCree says when he pulls away a second time. “Come on, we gotta get out of here.” Hanzo scowls, but he’s right. He sits back and picks up the prosthetic arm from where he set it aside. “How the hell’d you find me?”

“I had Vaswani put a GPS tracking chip in your arm.” He taps the plastic casing on the forearm before helping McCree reattach it, suction holding it in place. Satya’s quality of work spoke for itself, fitting snugly around the remnants of McCree’s elbow without needing straps or a harness to stay connected.

McCree hums over that information, flexing his arm to test it. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he concedes, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. Hanzo frowns at him, not so easily distracted by his innocent charm as usual. He blinks. “What?”

“I should fire you,” Hanzo huffs. He turns his attention to freeing McCree from the pipe. The handcuffs are nothing special; he pulls a bobby pin from his hair, unbends it, and sets to work.

McCree grimaces. “I know babe, I’m sorry. Made a dumb mistake.”

Hanzo snorts, twisting the pin against the lock to bend its tip into the right curve. “My head of security cannot even take care of himself.” He rotates the pin, wrestling with it a little before the lock gives and McCree slides his hand free.

“They outnumbered me is all. Won’t happen again.” He shakes out his wrist, looking properly abashed. Hanzo sighs.

“What would I have done if I lost you?” He tilts forward, his forehead pressing against McCree’s, and closes his eyes, resting for just a moment in the knowledge that McCree is his again, safe and unharmed and with Hanzo. As he belongs.

“Aw, sweetie,” McCree murmurs. Then he breathes a soft “Heh,” making Hanzo open his eyes to look at him curiously. “You’re a mess, you know.”

Hanzo straightens, touching the itch on one side of his forehead. Drying blood sticks to his fingers. He becomes vaguely aware of an ache in his left side, a twinge in his upper back. “I know.” He stands up and helps McCree to his feet, and they head back out into the hotel room. Immediately, Hanzo notices something is off; only four bodies. The door is slightly ajar. Hanzo sighs.

The escapee is in the hallway, limping and leaning heavily on the wall. He hears Hanzo coming and turns, extending one hand. “Wait, wait!” he gasps, “I didn’t know he was yours, I just—we just got hired, it wasn’t personal—”

Hanzo lashes out, striking the man’s throat with practiced precision. He chokes. Hanzo grabs him by the shirt and drags him close to growl in his face, “I do not care.”

McCree watches him from the doorway of the room as he drags the man still pleading back inside. “Hanzo…”

“If you do not want to witness, stay out here.” McCree sets his jaw and looks like he’s going to argue, but after a second of staring each other down he steps out into the hallway and shuts the door. Hanzo throws the man toward the floor, lets him stumble and fall on his wounded leg with a groan.

Hanzo wipes the handle of his switchblade on the leg of his pants so he can get a better grip. As he crosses the room for the others, he finds one of them has died; either his crushed throat itself slowly suffocated him, or he choked on his own spit and blood. What a pity. He drags the one with the gut wound further into the center of the room, then pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets up a timer. Seventeen minutes. Twenty-eight seconds.

He gags them first, stuffing washcloths from the bathroom deep into their mouths. They’ve already made enough noise to surely incur a few complaints to the motel staff, but outright screams would most certainly summon the police. They gave McCree a black eye, so the eyes are where he starts. Slips the blade in at the top of the eye socket and pops one out, first one man, then the other. The gut shot isn’t going to last, Hanzo can already tell; pale, slipping in and out of consciousness.

So he slaps him hard across the face, snaps, “Stay awake,” until his eyes try to focus on Hanzo’s face. Hanzo buries two fingers into the bullet wound, making him arch and sob into his gag.

“Oh, holy fuck,” the other one whimpers somewhere nearby. Hanzo tunes him out and focuses. As he’d expected, the man doesn’t last long, finally fading out while Hanzo is severing the tendons in his left elbow and not responding to Hanzo’s most valiant attempts to bring him back. Hanzo picks himself up, straightens his tank top (probably needs to be thrown out after this, even though it’s black), and turns to the last one. Still sobbing, pleading, has pissed his pants. Hanzo gloats, taking his time lingering over him with the switchblade in his hand.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, crouching down next to where he’s curled in a fetal position, grabbing one of his hands and pinning it to the ground. A head shake, a weak struggle to free the hand. “My name is Shimada Hanzo—“ a choked sob at the sound of his name, recognition accompanied by despair, “—and the man you thought you could take from me, use against me, is my home,” he brings the knife down on his pinky at the second knuckle, cutting between the joint, “my heart,” he moves onto his ring finger, which requires a little more effort than the thinner one, “my everything.” He gets through the middle finger, tightening his grip on the wrist as he squirms in pain and desperation. “No one harms him, no one _touches_ him,” he cuts through the index finger, “without answering to me.” He presses the blade over his thumb. “Do you understand me?”

He nods, furious and desperate, like appeasing Hanzo will save him. Maybe if he were McCree, compassionate and gentle McCree, it would be enough. Hanzo smiles at him, satisfied with his own work. He chops down on the thumb and moves on, the exhilaration that had waned flowing back in full force. Judge, jury, and executioner, doling out justice for his own selfish laws. This is his power.

A crushed kneecap and torn off fingernails later, his timer beeps. Hanzo stops digging out a kidney to slice his knife unceremoniously across the man’s throat.

Exultant, he stands and surveys his handiwork. Five dead at his hands, five who could not bring him down. The injuries he sustained only a testament to the struggle he’d walked away from. Hanzo leaves the room and finds McCree against one wall, fidgeting. He probably wants to smoke to ease his nerves, and Hanzo wishes he’d brought a cigarillo with him. “We good?” McCree asks.

“Quite,” Hanzo answers, striding forward and capturing McCree’s chin in one hand, leaning up on his toes to kiss him firmly. This time, McCree is not so reluctant, wrapping both arms around his waist to hold him tight against his chest. Hanzo’s split lip stings, and he tastes blood; it only makes his heart pound faster. With his free hand, Hanzo hooks his finger around the top button of McCree’s shirt and pulls, leads him back into the room.

The sharp copper smell of blood hangs thick in the air, hasn’t yet settled into the sour odor of death, and burying his nose against McCree’s skin makes it all irrelevant anyway. He almost trips on a body on the way to the bed and chuckles, sidestepping it. McCree pauses to look over the room, good eye  
a little wide.

“Holy shit, babydoll,” he finally says after a beat, turning his gaze back to Hanzo, “You’re really something, you know that?”

“I do,” he says, pleased that McCree is impressed, as he pulls his gloves off. Then he hesitates, gets uncertain. “Does it scare you?”

McCree snorts and curls his arms back around him, lifting him into the air. “Scared of li’l ol’ you? Don’t make me laugh.” He drops Hanzo onto the bed, then makes a thoughtful expression as he stands over him. “It’s a little hot,” he admits.

Hanzo puffs up proudly, lips twisting into a smirk. “Imagine what I could do to you,” he purrs. McCree chuckles, bending over him to kiss up his shoulder. “ _Should_ do to you, given your recent job performance.” He hums open-mouthed against Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo wriggles a hand between them and pushes McCree away so he has room to sit up and grab McCree, dragging him down onto his back.

“What, you want me to beg for mercy? I know that ain’t gonna work.” McCree grins up at him as he wrestles with shirt buttons.

“How presumptuous of you,” Hanzo huffs, finally getting the shirt open and exposing his white undershirt. He hunches down to kiss his chest through the shirt just to see the way little drops of bright red blood soak into it. “Then what will you do?”

McCree grabs a fistful of Hanzo’s top from the back and pulls at it until he helps drag it over his head. “I think I can persuade you I’m more useful than—hot damn, honey, your side.”

Hanzo follows McCree’s gaze down to his left side, where dark blue and purple have stained his skin in a bruise larger than his hand. “I may have gotten kicked,” he admits, waving dismissively at the look on McCree’s face, “I do not think any ribs broke. It’s fine.”

“Lord Almighty,” he mutters, and Hanzo doesn’t have time to puzzle out whether he’s concerned about the injury or annoyed he didn’t tell him before McCree is pulling him down for a kiss.

Hanzo only permits it for a moment before sitting up, hovering over McCree’s chest with his knees on either side. “What were you saying about being persuasive?” He tugs the drawstring of his pants loose. McCree’s grin stretches wide across his face, his hands grabbing Hanzo by the hips and pulling him forward.

“Honey, I’ll make you forget you ever thought differently,” McCree purrs. Hanzo laughs softly; McCree’s cockiness has no end, and it only goads Hanzo on. He leans forward a little more and sighs a shaky moan as McCree’s mouth engulfs him. He bends forward to steady himself, fists curling into the bedspread, and rolls his hips. McCree slides his hands around his waist to dig fingers into his buttocks, as clear an approval as he’s going to get with McCree’s mouth busy. Hanzo swallows a whine when fingernails bite into tender flesh, and he grinds deeper.

He’s just getting started when McCree tilts his head back to free his mouth. “What are you doing?” Hanzo grumbles, ducking his head to narrow his eyes down at McCree.

“Patience.” McCree smiles up at him and sucks on two of his own fingers. Oh. Hanzo lets his eyes fall closed as McCree’s lips return, followed shortly by his fingers nudging gently inside. He groans open-mouthed, driving his hips forward on reflex. McCree takes it in stride, accustomed to being used, loves being used. Hanzo is happy to oblige, intent on chasing the heat and constriction of McCree’s throat.

McCree’s fingers burn, friction just on this side of too much and curling at an angle that makes Hanzo hiss and hunch his shoulders. McCree is determined and relentless, and Hanzo nearly lets him have this. But he can’t, he’s not going to let McCree get the upper hand. Not this time. He pulls away, sits up, wipes a little drool from the corner of his mouth before McCree can get smug about it. “Something wrong?” McCree asks below him, voice worn a little raw.

Hanzo smirks down at him wordlessly before climbing off his chest and working McCree’s pants open. He spits into his palm and works quickly, methodically, McCree whining under him. Once Hanzo is satisfied he’s ready, he straddles him again. “Whoa, honey, hang on, that’s not—oh goddamn.” His face contorts as Hanzo sinks down onto him gradually. Hanzo sets his jaw against the way it already sears his insides. “Sugar—fuck—you shouldn’t—” McCree slides his hands up Hanzo’s hips and sides, a soothingly gentle touch. His palm runs over the blotchy edge of the bruise. Hanzo starts and hisses. “Shit! I’m sorry!”

Hanzo runs his tongue over his lips. “No.” He drags both hands through McCree’s expanse of chest hair. “Don’t be.” He meets McCree’s gaze, a challenge. “Do it again.” He does, cautiously at first, brushing his hand over the bruise. Hanzo shivers at the ache under his skin, a fitting accompaniment to the burning deep inside him.

“Oh, Hanzo, you’re gonna kill me,” McCree groans as Hanzo resumes his progress downward. Fingertips press firmer down against Hanzo’s bruise, and a gasping cry breaks out of his lips. _Yes._ This is what he needs. Nerves awake and screaming, more alive than ever. Nothing is more primal or more affirming than pain. He screws his eyes shut, tearing apart at the seams, his teeth grinding together in effort. He can only vaguely hear the way McCree pants out curses beneath him.

He lifts one hand off McCree’s chest to take care of himself, desperate for release. McCree chooses that moment (definitely deliberate) to _squeeze_ Hanzo’s ribs and roll his hips in sync, and with a choked snarl Hanzo breaks, too overwhelmed to register McCree tensing and shuddering through his own climax with his fingers tight on Hanzo’s skin.

Hanzo realizes he’s trembling when he comes back down, barely able to lift himself off McCree and drop face-first onto the bed next to him. “Hanzo, baby, hey. You okay?” McCree coos close to his ear, his warm hand settling on Hanzo’s back.

Hanzo turns his head to look at him, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Very much so,” he assures, forcing himself back up slowly and pulling his pants back on. “I am going to be sore for days.”

“Ain’t got no one to blame for that one but yourself.” McCree chuckles and sits up to watch him retrieve his phone from where he’d left it, tapping out a text with the address and room number, followed by “Need cleanup crew immediately.” He slides the phone into his pants pocket.

Hanzo goes back into the bathroom, turning on the hot tap and washing dry blood off his arms. This is the first chance he gets to check himself in the mirror. Blue and green mottle just beneath his right eye, following the curve of his eye socket, and his lip is split deep on the same side. A thick trail of blood runs down the left side of his face from his hairline, dark and sticky.

He cleans up as best he can, gingerly dabbing blood away until he looks slightly more presentable, if still like he definitely got in a fight. McCree still sits on the bed when he returns, hands clasped together. Hanzo checks his phone. “Help will be here soon,” he informs him, picking up his discarded shirt. They end up waiting in the hallway, speaking quietly about updating their security protocols and investigating who had been behind the job.

Jiro arrives within half an hour, and the crew follows while Hanzo is briefing Jiro on what happened. He and McCree don’t stay much longer than that, leaving Jiro in charge of ensuring that any sign of their presence gets erased. They walk close together on the way out of the hotel, the taxi Hanzo had called already waiting at the curb when they get outside. McCree laughs at him, merciless, when he shifts uncomfortably on his seat in the car.

McCree reaches across the middle seat between them to take Hanzo’s left hand and pull it into his lap. “Knew you’d come for me,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb grazing over Hanzo’s knuckles.

“I always will.” He watches the soft curl of McCree’s lips, the flutter of his lashes as he looks down at their hands entwined together.

He grins and lifts Hanzo’s hand to his lips, kissing his ring finger. “Til death do us part?”

Hanzo shakes his head and unbuckles his belt, sliding into the empty space between them and leaning into McCree’s side. “No,” he says, firmly, resting his head on McCree’s shoulder, “Not even death will part us.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated T, cw for implied domestic abuse

Hanzo is not in the business of organized crime to make friends. Extortion, loan sharking, and the occasional assassination are bound to piss off a few people, and his competitors will take any opportunity to weaken his organization’s hold on the area if they think they can get away with it. He came to terms a long time ago with the fact that his end would be premature and violent.

He should have known better than to let himself get complacent for even a moment.

His car lurches to a stop. Hanzo frowns and looks out the window. Rain is pelting down in buckets, but the road is clear. Where the hell even are they? They’ve diverted from the main road, to a narrow street lined with old buildings and the fading storefronts of failing little businesses. “Why did you stop?” he demands, but the driver doesn’t respond, jamming the gear into park and bolting out of the car. Hanzo blinks.

The window behind him cracks, and a bullet whistles just past his right ear and lodges into the dashboard. Sniper. Hanzo drops sideways onto the seat. He was set up. He reaches under the seat, feeling for the pistol stashed underneath. Above his head, the door window shatters and bits of glass fall all around him. He flinches away. A forearm reaches through the window and yanks the door handle; Hanzo grabs his push knife from his inside breast pocket and stabs at it. With a pained cry from outside, the arm withdraws.

Hanzo’s position puts him at a disadvantage; lying on his side with his head exposed to his assailant, he doesn’t stand a chance. Once the door wrenches open, he expects a shot, popped right into his head simple and easy. But there’s no gunshot, nothing swings down to crush his skull. “Come on, get out!” a voice snarls in English. Hanzo scrambles, swinging around so he can slide feet first out of the car.

Someone is crouched next to his car, using it as cover. As soon as Hanzo’s out, the stranger grabs a handful of his suit jacket and propels him forward. Hanzo hears another sniper round split the air behind him and hit the pavement. He picks up speed, and they make it to a cross street without getting shot.

In the safety around the corner, Hanzo stops abruptly and drags the stranger with him, using his momentum to throw him against the brick wall and press his knife against the exposed jugular. “Who are you?” He’s a little out of practice speaking English, but he’ll make due. Rain drips out of his hair and over his brow, but he’s not going to risk letting go for the sake of wiping water out of his eyes.

“Whoa, hold up now!” He raises his gloved hands in a gesture of surrender. Blood dribbles down the right sleeve of his leather jacket. American accent, his skin is dark tan and littered with freckles and hair. Brown eyes watch Hanzo intently, warm and deep, rimmed white in alarm. “I ain’t trying to hurt you!”

“That is the only reason you are not already dead.” A bead of blood wells up under Hanzo’s knife. “What is your name?”

The American flicks his tongue over his lower lip and takes a breath. “Jesse McCree. Most folks just call me McCree.” Slowly, carefully, he lowers his hands and pushes Hanzo’s wrist to relieve a little of the pressure on his throat. “Look, they’re gonna be closing in fast, we ain’t got much time. We gotta get out of here.”

Hanzo sneers, but McCree is right. For the time being, he doesn’t have much choice. The sniper is bound to be repositioning, and from the sound of it they’re not alone. He releases McCree, who leads him down the street and cuts around a corner. This area is more populated, which is a little safer, but McCree doesn’t stop. Hanzo is soaked to the bone.

He leads Hanzo over a crosswalk, where a motorcycle is parked in an area clearly marked for no parking. “Aw, shit, here.” McCree turns on him suddenly. “Give me your phone.” He hands it over, and McCree pulls the back off, dislodges the battery, and drops it on the side of the road. Hanzo pockets the dead phone while McCree puts on the helmet that hung from the handlebar and mounts the bike. “Sorry, I only got the one and I need to see.” He taps the plastic visor, grinning apologetically.

Hanzo just huffs and gets on behind him, considerably less gracefully. He has never been on a motorcycle before, and he had hoped he never would. “Hold on,” McCree says over his shoulder, and before Hanzo can answer with a snide comment they’re rocketing forward. Clinging on is all Hanzo can do, tightening his arms around the man’s middle; McCree laughs. Hanzo wonders if he’d be able to get control of the bike if he threw McCree off.

They veer through city traffic at a speed that Hanzo thinks is about as safe as letting the gunmen close in on them. He has never felt so exposed, with no steel frame or airbags to protect him from a collision, no sense of control or protection. Not even a helmet. He presses his face against McCree’s hunched shoulder blades; he’s a large man, Hanzo’s grip around his stomach suggesting a body fit with muscles beneath a layer of soft fat, maybe he will provide ample cushioning in case of a crash.

But they don’t crash, McCree handles the bike with ease as they escape the city center and head toward the outskirts of town. They slow down to a less suicidal speed as they enter a more nondescript part of town, apartment complexes and industrial complexes huddling together. McCree peters to a stop in a cramped, dingy alley. “Where are we?” Hanzo demands.

“Safehouse.” A black tarp lies crumpled on the pavement, and McCree throws it over the motorcycle. “They know where yours is.” He leads Hanzo through a side door with a stairwell on the other side. Hanzo, dripping wet in a custom-tailored suit and eyeliner that’s probably smudged by now, definitely stands out here; he sets his jaw, self-consciously smoothing his suit jacket and adjusting his ponytail. Trying to scrape together some artificial semblance of control.

Up three flights of stairs, McCree lets him into a modest studio apartment, simply furnished but clean, a curtain in the back corner to form a little privacy around the bed. “I’m subletting, paid in cash, on the DL. They won’t find us,” he says, locking the door behind them. Hanzo doesn’t know what “DL” means, but McCree sounds confident, so he takes it. McCree kicks off his boots, which does little to lighten his heavy footsteps as he pads through the living space to get a first aid kit from under the kitchenette sink. “So don’t make a mess or nothing.” He sits down at the round dining table and tries to maneuver his leather jacket off.

Hanzo sighs. “Here.” He helps tug the jacket off his shoulders and off his left arm first, then carefully off his right. Hanzo finds a pair of small scissors in the first aid kit, which works well enough to cut away his bloodied shirt sleeve. “Now. Explain yourself. Are you an assassin?”

McCree grunts and watches him clean around the wound. “You really got me good, partner,” he mutters, then sighs and eases back in his chair. “Hired gun.” Same thing, Hanzo thinks. “Got contacted for a job two weeks ago. I don’t usually get hired out this far, but hey, Japan sounds nice this time of year, right?” He shrugs with one shoulder, careful not to move his right arm. “Plus the pay was good, and one more scum-sucking crime lord dickbag would bite the dust. No offense.”

Hanzo gives him a deadpan stare and presses an alcohol-soaked cotton ball over his wound. He jerks and hisses, then chuckles a little nervously. “Right. So six days ago I meet up with the three other guys I’m supposed to be working with and we start right away. Digging up more intel, finding a weak link – your driver, by the way – and so on. Pretty standard for a hit job with lotsa security, nothing four of us can’t handle. Then I find out why our employer wanted to put you in the ground.” He retrieves a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket. “Up-and-coming politician by the name of Yoshikuni Kazuma, you’re bleeding him dry with extortion money.” Hanzo nods, focused on cleaning and disinfecting. He pauses, glancing up at McCree when he feels his lingering gaze. McCree is staring at him, thoughtful. “But you ain’t just blackmailing him. You’re protecting his wife and kids, got them hidden away somewhere.”

“I am,” Hanzo affirms. McCree keeps studying him.

“That’s why he hired a whole team. Not just to take you out, but track down where you got his family. He’s real damn sore about it.” McCree shakes his head and takes a drag from his cigarette. “Anyway. I don’t work for people like that, and I don’t kill the people trying to set things right.”

Hanzo shrugs. “Who says I am setting things right? Perhaps I am only doing it for the money.” McCree grunts but holds still as Hanzo slides the curved needle through his skin and begins suturing the wound shut. “She came to me with evidence of his crimes, and we made an agreement.”

“Maybe,” McCree concedes, “But you’d be making even more money if you didn’t have to spend some on keeping them safe.” Hanzo doesn’t answer. McCree blows smoke above their heads and continues, “Sometimes, the ends justify the means. Point is, I don’t want them to wind up back in his hands either, so if you’re the guy I gotta save to make sure that don’t happen, then so be it.”

In silence, Hanzo clips the suture and wraps gauze bandage around his arm. McCree inspects his handiwork, testing the muscles by clenching and unclenching his hand. “I owe you my life. I will make sure this is taken care of.” Hanzo stands. “You have seen the people involved, their tactics, their location. Help me deal with this situation, and I will pay you double what Yoshikuni offered you.”

McCree sticks out his hand. “You got a deal.” Hanzo shakes with him. “So what now, boss?”

Hanzo crosses to the sink and washes his hands under the hot water. “Now you bring me a towel.” McCree laughs and fetches him one from the bathroom, so Hanzo can dry off a little. When he hands the towel back, McCree slings it over his head and rubs vigorously at his hair.

Hanzo peels his suit jacket off and drapes it over a chair to let it dry. “Tell me everything – _everything_ – you have learned in the past six days.” His security had been breached, his business compromised. He needs to know exactly what they’d gotten.

McCree starts at the beginning, working his way through the other mercenaries he met, their backgrounds and any apparent weaknesses, down to Yoshikuni himself, how much direct contact they had with him and what he already knew about Hanzo. As McCree speaks he smokes through three or four cigarettes and downs a fourth of a bottle of whiskey he got from the cabinet. McCree had been backup on the ground, in case the driver didn’t come through or a poor line of sight hampered the sniper – they had not expected so much rain. Hanzo snorts, unimpressed; he knows a sniper who could easily hit her marks in worse weather at longer distances, they could have at least had the decency to hire someone a little more professional to take him out. The other two mercenaries were interrogating potential informants and trying to gain access to any hard data that might lead them to the hidden family. They won’t find anything, Hanzo assures him. He has been careful to cover his tracks.

Eventually McCree leans back, scratches his beard, and shrugs. “That’s about everything I got for you.” He stands and puts his hands on his lower back to stretch, then saunters over to the kitchenette. “Reckon they’re tripping over themselves looking for us now. If you’re sure we don’t have to worry about them finding anything on your end, we’ve got time to get some shut-eye.” He tears open a couple instant dinner boxes from the freezer. “Noodles or…” He squints at one of the boxes. “Dumplings?”

Hanzo wrinkles his nose. “Noodles.”

McCree laughs and puts one of the dinners in the microwave. He has a warm laugh, smoky and abrasive, vibrating through Hanzo’s ears. “Figures. Only the most fearless palates would brave frozen mystery meals.” Hanzo reaches over the table to take the glass McCree left and sips his whiskey on the rocks. Cheap, and he prefers it neat, but right now he’ll take anything.

McCree tugs at the shorn remains of his right sleeve and grumbles under his breath, popping the buttons and stripping down to his undershirt right there. Hanzo drops his chin to focus intently on his stolen drink, but his gaze drifts back on its own. He’s built thick, with broad shoulders and a solid chest that leads down to a gently curving belly. Hanzo has already felt it, soft but firm. A black harness holds in place a prosthetic left arm at his elbow (unsurprising, given his line of work; more surprising that he sustained such an injury and survived it). Wide hips, long legs, a swell of ass like nothing Hanzo has ever seen. He swallows.

“Can’t imagine you get much food like this, huh?” McCree pops open the microwave, gets a set of chopsticks from a drawer, and sets them with a dish of the noodles in front of Hanzo. “Bon appetite.”

“If this is an attempt at poisoning me, it is very poorly executed,” Hanzo responds, using the chopsticks to pick at the pile of limp noodles before him.

McCree chuckles and goes back to the microwave to prepare his own dinner. “If I had some chicken and tortillas, I could whip up the best damn enchiladas verdes you ever tasted. That’d shut your smart mouth.”

“Oh really?” Hanzo hums, raising his eyebrows, lips tugging into the slightest smirk. How long has it been since anyone spoke to him so brashly?

“Damn straight. It’s my old gran’s recipe, it never fails.” The microwave beeps, and shortly McCree returns to his seat with his own food and a second glass. “’Course, been a while since I had a proper kitchen and some proper time for a decent cooked meal.” He takes his own glass back and gives Hanzo the other one to pour himself a drink.

Hanzo pours two fingers into his glass. “Perhaps you should have been a chef rather than a mercenary.”

He chortles. “Maybe I should’ve.”

The rest of their modest meal is short and silent, and then McCree insists he take the bed and makes himself comfortable on the couch, even though his legs have to hang off for him to fit. The curtain doesn’t do much, but Hanzo is not shy. He strips and lays his clothes out over the chair with his jacket, smoothing it as best he can. It wasn’t meant for so much activity or withstanding weather, and it’s going to have to last him at least for another day. In boxer briefs, he slips his knife under the pillow, curls up on his side beneath the covers, and tries not to think of home.

He’s exhausted to the core of his being, but paranoia’s teeth remain tight around his neck, so he sleeps in fits and starts, collapsing into sleep before being dragged back awake. The digital clock on the wall mocks him with the progression of time; one hour, two hours, four hours. He gets up after five and a half, showering and putting his suit pants on. The apartment is still deep in darkness as he sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his hands. Who is he without his empire? Just a man, powerless. Left alone with only his guilt for company, waiting for death to finally stifle the pain of living.

He has to get back. It’s all he has.

He makes coffee in the kitchen, and lounges half-asleep in a chair with coffee clutched in both hands. He’s consumed most of the pot he made when McCree wakes up, snorting and stretching and scratching his chest. “Morning,” he says around a yawn. Hanzo grunts without looking up from the streetview window. McCree empties the coffee pot into a mug and gets a fresh one brewing. “Not a morning person?” He chuckles at Hanzo’s responding grimace.

They drink coffee quietly as gray morning light seeps in through the windows. Hanzo still feels like he got dragged through the dirt, but he’s more alert now that he has four or five cups of sugar-laced coffee coursing through his veins. As he gathers his hair to pull into a ponytail, McCree comments around his mug, “Got a lotta ink on you. Looks nice.”

Chattiest mercenary Hanzo has ever met. He glances down at his bare torso, where storm clouds gather over his pectorals and angular bolts of lightning strike along the sides of his abdomen. The dragon coiling around his right arm had been the first he got, years ago; his left sleeve, back, and sides following as he climbed ranks and carved out a place for himself at the top of the yakuza. “Thank you.” He stands up and pours himself more coffee.  “We’re going straight for Yoshikuni,” he informs McCree as he stirs in several spoonfuls of sugar. “With the source of money out of the way, his pawns will have no reason to waste their time and effort or risk their safety.”

“Yeah. Cut the head off the snake.” McCree puts slices of bread in the toaster and sets a pan on the stovetop. “Sure he won’t have security beefed up, with you on the loose?”

Hanzo tilts his head, thinking. “Perhaps. But he knows I am cut off from my resources and he has a great advantage over me. He will be confident and, for the moment, more focused on tracking me down than protecting himself from attack. We will have a better chance now, before he needs to regroup and restrategize.”

Eggs sizzle in McCree’s pan. “Sure thing, boss. He had a middleman – over easy or hard? – for communicating with us, we’ll start there.” He breaks the yolk on one of the eggs. “I’ll get you to him, ASAP.”

McCree gives him toast and over easy eggs, then plops himself down on the other side of the table with his own breakfast. “What’re you gonna do to him?” he asks, conversationally, as he lights a cigarette.

Hanzo frowns. “That is none of your concern. You are simply to take me to him.” He picks up his chopsticks and turns his attention to breakfast. Yoshikuni is becoming more of a problem than his money is worth. But killing him would be too risky, it would become a media circus, and he would become a martyr. No, he must stay alive, but he will think twice before crossing Shimada Hanzo again.

After breakfast Hanzo gets properly dressed – his clothes dried out well overnight, though they stink and definitely need to be cleaned – and tucks his sheathed push knife back into his jacket, and McCree puts on a plaid flannel shirt and an honest to God cowboy hat. “Are you actually wearing that?” Hanzo asks.

McCree smirks as he straps a gun belt high on his waist, where it will be hidden beneath his leather jacket scrubbed clean of his own blood. His weapon of choice is a revolver, not exactly subtle. “I surely am.” Hanzo clicks his tongue in dismay, which makes McCree chuckle. Hanzo shakes his head to hide the faintest smile. Making McCree laugh is easy, and his mild temperament is infectious.

Hanzo isn’t about to get back on the motorcycle without a helmet, so when they head out he calls a taxi to carry them back into the city center. In the car, he borrows McCree’s phone, uncompromised, to scour the news; a town car getting fired on is a top story. He checks photos first, only one of which from an eyewitness around the time of the shooting. He is in the background and out of focus, so his identity is likely secure. Most articles speculate yakuza fighting, but they have no other details. Hanzo breathes a sigh of relief. The more he can avoid dealing with the authorities in any case, the better.

McCree is convinced Yoshikuni’s mouthpiece will know his location. He works at city hall – Hanzo is unsurprised that Yoshikuni has dug his hooks into others in the local government – and the cab drops them off in front. McCree waves his prosthetic hand and says, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” He disappears inside, and Hanzo leans back against the brick façade.

He fingers the knife in his pocket. If McCree returns with backup, Hanzo can probably take out at least one and make a break for it before they can overpower him. As long as he sticks to busy city streets, it’s unlikely they’ll risk using firearms.

But McCree hasn’t tried to trick him; he comes out a few minutes later with a wiry, pale-faced young man, hunching under the big arm McCree has slung over his shoulders. As soon as they see Hanzo, the man grinds his heels and tries to bolt away, but McCree only curls his fingers into his shirt. “Easy, partner,” he says with a casual laugh, “I told you, we just want to have a friendly chat.” He escorts the man down the sidewalk to an alley. Hanzo follows at a short distance, making sure no one watches or senses something amiss.

“Mr. Yoshikuni is going to kill you!” The man is saying when Hanzo catches up, his voice high with panic. McCree lets him go, his back against the wall. “He is looking everywhere for you, he is going to—” Hanzo cuts him off with a swift punch to his stomach. He doubles over, gasping to catch his breath.

“Keep watch,” Hanzo tells McCree, nodding toward the mouth of the alley. McCree hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and obediently leaves them alone. Fortunate that the sky is still gray and heavy with moisture, a deterrent for many people who would otherwise be walking around the city. Hanzo draws his knife and asks in Japanese, “What is your name?”

Instead of giving an answer, he draws himself up as tall as he can and fists his hands to hide the way they tremble. “I won’t tell you anything. You think you can control the government with intimidation and lies. Mr. Yoshikuni will be governor next year, he won’t let you control him.”

Hanzo arches his eyebrows. This man is a spineless tool, vomiting out what he’s told. At least Hanzo’s job will be easy. His hand shoots out and latches onto the man’s neck, thumb and forefinger digging just beneath the hinges of his jaw, and he cracks his head back against the brick.

“You are going to tell me where I can find him,” Hanzo snarls, leaning close. He presses the tip of his blade at an angle just beneath the ribs. “You have ten seconds before your intestines begin to come out. Ten.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” he says, but his voice cracks.

“Nine.”

“There’s nothing you can do.” It’s almost too easy.

“Eight.”

“You can’t,” he squeaks.

“Seven.”

“We’re in the middle of the city. Someone will hear.”

“Six.” His knife punctures cloth and flesh, scrapes the underside of rib. Hanzo tightens his grip on his throat at the same time, strangling the cry of pain.

He doesn’t have breath to say anything; Hanzo won’t let him catch it.

“Five.”

He loosens his hand again, and he gasps to catch breath and say something, but Hanzo cuts him off.

“Four.”

“Wait, wait!” He wheezes, forcing the words out without enough air in his lungs. “You’re fucking crazy!”

Hanzo grinds his teeth in a snarl. “Where is he?”

He tries to writhe away from the knife still sliding underneath his skin. “The Shiro Hotel, under the name Anami Daisuke.” Hanzo eases back, drawing his blade out. The man crumples, cupping his hands against the wound.

“And the mercenaries? Where has he sent them?” Hanzo lifts one arm and gestures to beckon McCree over, who is leaning against the wall and smoking. The American ambles back down the alley to his side.

“They spread out, two looking for you. One of them trying to get his family back.” He shifts his weight, trying to find a position that eases the pain in his abdomen. He’s not going to be good for much more information. “They found a leak in your gang, your own people turned against you, you’re going to fall apart—”

Hanzo reaches into McCree’s jacket, grabs his gun, and whips it against the man’s temple. He collapses into a heap. “Coulda asked, used your manners,” McCree mutters.

This isn’t his ideal solution, but he doesn’t have much choice. Let him go and he’d contact Yoshikuni immediately; McCree and Hanzo had probably been seen leaving with him, so killing him was too risky. At least now they’ve bought some time. “Thank you,” he answers wryly as he hands the gun back.

Squatting next to the body, he digs through the man’s clothes until he finds a cell phone. Might as well do what he can to stall for time. “We are going to the Shiro Hotel.” He slides his knife under his suit and wipes the blade off on the armpit of his shirt before sheathing it. “Yoshikuni is hiding there.”

The hotel is close enough that waiting to wave down an open taxi wouldn’t save them much time, so they walk. Puddles glisten on the sidewalk in irregular intervals; Hanzo steps around them, McCree lets them splash around his boots. “You know where it is, eh?” McCree asks.

“I have been there myself once or twice on business.” Hanzo buttons his jacket and straightens his tie as they walk. Interrogation can be so messy.

“Business,” McCree repeats with a soft chortle. “What kinda business you get at hotels, boss?” Hanzo doesn’t dignify that with a response.

They arrive in fifteen minutes. The Shiro is a veritable tower of concrete and glass set back a few meters from the street, spotlights painting patches of soft gold against its exterior. McCree whistles as they step off the sidewalk to follow the half-circle driveway. “Hell, I’ll do business with you for these kinda digs,” he mutters. Hanzo glances at him to arch an eyebrow and enters through the rotating door.

“If you were my prostitute, I would not take you somewhere this nice,” Hanzo informs him. McCree’s footsteps stutter over the marbled floor as Hanzo approaches the reception desk with a smile. “I’m looking for Anami Daisuke’s room.”

The receptionist taps at the keyboard of her computer, then picks up the phone and cradles it on her shoulder. Hanzo taps his fingers against the edge of the desk casually, but from the corner of his eye he watches her dial. She speaks quietly into the phone and hangs up after only a moment. “I’m sorry, Mr. Anami has asked not to be disturbed. If it is important, perhaps you should try his cell phone.”

Hanzo nods. “I will. Thank you.” He steps away toward the lounge, fishing the shell of his phone out of his pocket, but as soon as he’s out of direct line of sight and the receptionist returns to her work, he puts it back and strides toward the elevator bank. They wait for an empty one, and Hanzo pushes the button for floor 17 and closes the doors before anyone else can join them.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” McCree folds his arms over his chest and leans back against the chrome wall.

Hanzo watches the digital numbers above the door tick up with each floor they pass. “I am going to destroy him,” he snarls, fury bubbling just under the surface of his skin. So close to taking his justice now, so few obstacles between him and the cause of the last 12 hours of headache. He can practically taste the blood on his tongue.

“Not really a ‘plan.’” McCree hums and tilts his head, considering Hanzo. “Y’sure going in gun’s blazing is the best idea?”

“Do not forget your place. You are hired muscle,” Hanzo huffs, frowning severely at him. He only shrugs, unapologetic.

“Just seems to me like you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” he starts, but the door dings and hisses open before he can finish whatever thought he has, and Hanzo strides out without listening to him. Somewhere behind him, he hears McCree puff out an exasperated sigh, but pays him no mind.

He finds room 1724 soon enough, leaning his ear against the door to listen for any clues about what to expect on the other side, but he doesn’t pick up anything. He takes a step back. McCree unzips his jacket and loosens his gun in its holster. “Really gotta listen to other people, partner,” he says, and before Hanzo can stop him he’s pounding his fist on the door. “Hey! It’s McCree!”

Hanzo goes for his knife, but McCree is expecting that. He grabs Hanzo’s wrist and twists his arm behind his back. Hanzo hisses in pain and tries to jerk his way out of McCree’s grip, but McCree is bigger and stronger, and caught him with his guard down. Then the muzzle of his revolver digs between Hanzo’s shoulder blades, and he stills, hissing curses under his breath. The door swings open in front of them, a large man training a gun on them immediately, but when he sees Hanzo he lowers his weapon a little. “Howdy,” McCree greets pleasantly, “Got something for the boss.”

The bodyguard steps back, as someone within the room says in Japanese, “Let him in.” The gun against Hanzo’s back presses harder, a command, and he moves forward. There are two other men in the room, one dressed identically to the one who opened the door – a second bodyguard – and standing in the doorway of the bedroom is Yoshikuni. He looks at Hanzo and raises his eyebrows.

“Well. You cocky little bastard.” Yoshikuni turns his attention up to McCree, a smile tugging at his lips. “I should dock your pay for pulling this stupid stunt.”

McCree chortles and pushes Hanzo down to his knees, holstering his weapon. “C’mon boss, you really think he’s gonna leave sensitive intel lying around? We ain’t gonna find shit without the man himself.” Hanzo presses his lips firmly together and maintains his steady glower up at Yoshikuni. McCree reaches around him from behind to fish into his jacket and takes his knife.

“They told me you were smarter than you looked.” Yoshikuni approaches, even now staying at arm’s length from Hanzo as he squats down in front of him. Scared of him; Hanzo takes some small satisfaction in that. He was probably a good-looking enough man in his youth, but now he has become complacent, fancying himself too important to need to impress people with looks now that he has influence. Round in the middle and slumping, cheeks beginning to hang loose around his mouth, too much gel in his slick hair. From what Hanzo can tell, he’s unarmed. “Good morning, Shimada.”

Hanzo doesn’t waver, says nothing, only glares. Yoshikuni sighs and stands again. “Take him into the bathroom, I will be there momentarily.” He gives McCree a dismissive wave as he crosses the room to one of his bodyguards, speaking quietly.

McCree pulls Hanzo back up to his feet and leads him into the bathroom. Hanzo swallows to fight the way his heart claws up his throat; all tile, easy place to clean up blood. McCree loosens his grip on him, and he whirls to face him, trying to twist his arm out of McCree’s grasp entirely. “You fucking piece of _shit_ —“

“Easy, easy, easy,” McCree hisses, gesturing with his left hand palm-down to indicate lowering his voice. He lets go of Hanzo to offer out the confiscated knife. He takes it and eyes McCree warily. “Damn, you got a real temper on you, don’t you?”

“I should slit your throat,” Hanzo says in response.

“Maybe, just wait until we take care of the rest of ‘em first, okay?” He shakes his head. “Tried to tell you we wouldn’t get far without a real plan.” He steps away to aim at Hanzo from the far side of the room, enough distance between them that Hanzo couldn’t disarm him fast enough if he tried. Back to being a prisoner. Hanzo tucks his knife up his sleeve, concealing it where he can reach it at a moment’s notice as best he can.

Yoshikuni appears soon with both of his lackeys in tow. Hanzo glances at McCree; all three of them in quarters too close to use guns very well, a good opportunity. McCree blinks slowly, looking like a lazy gesture, but he shifts his weight a little to stand up straighter, more attentive.

“You know what I need, Shimada,” Yoshikuni says, gesturing a hand at one of his bodyguards. He grabs a handful of Hanzo’s lapel and drags him forward. A fist hooks up into his stomach, and when he bends over a knee rises up to meet him. The crack of his nose splits through his skull. Hanzo stumbles back a step, one hand coming up reflexively to his face. Blood bubbles out of his nose, staining his lips, dripping down his chin. Pain flares hot behind his eyes.

He looks up, shooting a defiant glare past the bodyguard to Yoshikuni. McCree has shifted closer to him and the second thug, watching Hanzo impassively. He licks blood off his lips and spits it out, and when the man closes the distance to hit him again Hanzo lunges forward, butting his head into his stomach and knocking him off balance.

He shakes his wrist to dislodge the knife, curling his fingers around the grip and slicing it at his opponent’s stomach. He manages to stagger backward, the blade shallowly catching his hip. He kicks his foot out, succeeding in knocking the knife out of Hanzo’s hand. But he hasn’t recovered his balance well enough, and Hanzo is able to grab him and throws him at the tub. His calves catch on the lip of the tub, he collapses. Hanzo thinks he hears something crack as he falls.

“Hanzo!” McCree’s voice. Hanzo bolts out of the room. The second bodyguard is just picking himself up off the floor in the bathroom doorway; Hanzo delivers a swift kick to his head as he steps over him.

Yoshikuni was making a break for the door, McCree grabbing his upper arms in an attempt to restrain him. McCree glances up, distracted by Hanzo’s entrance, and Yoshikuni takes advantage. He jabs his elbow into McCree’s stomach, loosening the grip on him enough to break free. Hanzo leaps forward to help as Yoshikuni dives.

His bodyguard’s gun on the floor.

“Get down!” Hanzo grabs McCree by the shirt to drag him away and take cover behind a couch.

One, two gunshots crack through the air. Bang, bang. Hanzo’s side lights up, a searing burn lacing up into his core. McCree’s eyes widen, grabbing Hanzo to keep him from collapsing face-first. Hanzo slumps to a seat against the back of the couch, a chill creeping through his torso. McCree looks him over. “Shit, boss.” He gingerly lifts Hanzo’s jacket away from his side to get a better look and winces. “Hold on for me.”

He starts to rise. Warm dark eyes, it had been the first thing Hanzo noticed about him. They aren’t warm anymore. Hanzo grabs a fistful of his jeans and tugs, trying fruitlessly to keep him behind their cover, but McCree ignores him as he stands.

Hanzo’s vision must be getting hazy; even with the seconds dragging out in slow motion, he doesn’t even see McCree draw his gun. Where had his gun been? Summoned from nowhere. More than just a tool in McCree’s hand; an extension of his own being. Or perhaps McCree is just an extension of the weapon. Gun for hire. He fires a single shot before Yoshikuni on the other side can even react, and Hanzo hears dead weight drop.

Every breath shoots little tendrils of ice through his veins, reaching a little deeper every second. He’s going to freeze from the inside out. Pain is only just starting to roll through Hanzo’s body, but he refuses to look down at the extent of the damage. McCree crouches next to him, cupping one hand against the bottom of Hanzo’s jaw and around the back of his neck. He has such big, warm hands.

“Hey, you still gotta pay me.” McCree fumbles his phone out of his pocket with his prosthetic hand, but he needs to use his right one to dial 119. Hanzo misses the feeling of his calloused skin immediately. “What kind of shitty businessman dies without paying his employees, huh?”

Hanzo twists his lip in offense and tries to spit out a retort, but McCree is already talking, demanding an ambulance from the emergency line. Worry presses deep creases in McCree's brow. Hanzo closes his eyes.

\--

Soft beeping. A muted ache in his side.

Hanzo opens his eyes blearily to find a speckled white ceiling and fluorescent lights above him. He screws his eyes shut again and mumbles, “Shit,” against the brightness.

“Mr. Shimada!” a voice cries from his right side. He looks over. Jiro, his most trusted lieutenant, sits in a chair close to the side of his bed, leaning close over the white and pale blue sheets. Hospital bed. “You’re awake, I’m so glad. When you disappeared yesterday, I knew something terrible had happened. I couldn’t reach you, I thought you’d been killed.” As he jabbers on, Hanzo finds his bearings; an IV drip and monitors attached to his arm, a single-occupancy hospital room with the door shut. A faded green vinyl bench against one wall, where McCree is sitting up from a slouch and tilting his hat away from his face to catch Hanzo’s gaze. His shoulders slump a little in relief.

“I didn’t trust this Mr. McCree you found, but he insisted on staying,” Jiro adds when he notices the line of Hanzo’s sight. Hanzo blinks and looks at him. “He said you hired him for protection.”

“I heard my name, I know y’all are talking about me,” McCree interjects. Jiro releases a longsuffering sigh.

“How long have I been asleep?” Hanzo asks, in English for McCree’s sake.

That successfully derails them, and Jiro catches him up on the past day he’s missed – Yoshikuni dead, neither of his lackeys cooperating with the authorities. They probably have too much to lose from exposing themselves to investigation. Hanzo’s lawyers are dealing with the whole affair. As soon as Jiro had heard Yoshikuni was involved he reached out to the family and moved them to a new location, but now that word of his death is spreading they already want to come out of hiding.

“Does she intend to come forward about him?” Hanzo asks, finding the hand control for the bed and pushing the lift button to sit up.

Jiro shrugs. “I don’t know. That is up to her.”

Hanzo leans back against his pillows with a sigh. “Should she choose to release information, make sure she knows she will have whatever support she needs from us.” He glances past Jiro to where McCree sits silently, his hat now resting on the bench next to him. “Give us a moment.”

He doesn’t look happy about leaving them alone, but he obliges and leaves the room. Through the window looking out into the hallway, Hanzo can see him hover close to the door, like he’s going to burst back in at any moment.

“Quite the right hand man you got there,” McCree remarks, standing up and ambling closer to Hanzo’s bed.

Hanzo hums. Jiro is a good man, loyal and idealistic. His brash and relentless energy reminds Hanzo of someone else, which had endeared him to the young man almost instantly. He’d only been 19 when Hanzo found him and glimpsed something promising in him, and he hadn’t regretted taking Jiro under his wing once.

“You saved my life for a second time,” he points out, changing the subject.

McCree makes himself comfortable in Jiro’s chair, kicking his feet up onto the bed. His feet are crammed into plain brown slippers far too small for him, hospital policy. “Wasn’t nothing, boss. You saved my bacon, too.”

“How much do I owe you for your services?” Hanzo persists.

McCree clasps his hands behind his head. “40 grand, USD.”

Hanzo nods and gives McCree a long, thoughtful look. “I want you to stay here, as my security.”

He chuckles and leans back. “Is that what you meant before?” Hanzo stares at him, brows arched in confusion. One corner of McCree’s mouth tilts into a crooked smile that grows until he’s grinning ear-to-ear, crooked teeth gleaming. “Oh. You don’t remember, do you?” He laughs and claps a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “Guess that makes sense. You were pretty doped up, boss.”

Hanzo frowns, fighting to suppress the urge to demand he tell everything. If McCree’s shit-eating grin is anything to go by, he probably doesn’t want to know. “You have proven yourself dependable and competent,” he continues, adamantly forging ahead and hoping McCree will quickly forget whatever it was he can’t remember, “You have found weaknesses in my organization and were capable of exploiting them. I could use you for risk management and strengthening my security. 100 thousand to stay one year, and I will cover all your relocation costs.”

McCree purses his lips, thinking it over. “Yeah. All right, sure, why the hell not?” He shrugs. “Might be nice not to have bounty hunters on my ass all the time.”

Hanzo snorts. “Of course you have a bounty on you.” McCree grins toothily. Hanzo reaches behind himself to adjust his pillows and then nestles back into them. “Yoshikuni was right about you.” He closes his eyes. “You are a cocky little bastard.” McCree’s deep, raspy laugh is the last thing he hears before he drifts away, already feeling more at ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote out the drugged conversation but it didn't really fit, maybe someday you'll see it.... someday......


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a commission for the illustrious and wonderful Jag. thank you!!
> 
> rating is a very soft M. cw for suicide mention

McCree’s beard scrapes against the dip of Hanzo’s spine, fingers kneading into his upper back. His hand is rough with callouses, blunt and warm and firm. He digs into the knots in Hanzo’s muscles and smooths them away. A sigh bubbles out of Hanzo’s lungs on its own, and he adjusts the pillow tucked under his arms and chin. McCree chuckles into his skin. “Right there?”

Hanzo grunts in affirmation. His partner presses another kiss before he pushes his elbow deep into the tangle of tense muscle he’s found. “Oh,” Hanzo moans, unable to stop himself. McCree hums behind him. When he told Hanzo three months ago that he wanted to take massage classes, Hanzo had been surprised but hadn’t questioned it.

God, was he glad he hadn’t.

Once McCree has worked out that knot he moves on, making his way down to Hanzo’s lower back and then to his ass. He maintains professionalism for a whole five minutes, which is frankly longer than Hanzo expected him to last before dragging his tongue between his glutes. Hanzo lifts his head and opens his eyes, twisting to peer down at McCree. McCree grins impishly at him. “What about my massage?” he huffs.

“Don’t whine, babydoll. The point is to make you feel good, ain’t it?” He ducks down to kiss open-mouthed at Hanzo’s backside, and then bites the same spot. “I got this.” Hanzo knows he does; McCree is at least as talented at eating ass as he is at massaging.

Hanzo is teetering on the edge, gasping and hissing, McCree’s tongue nearly up his intestines, when the phone rings.

“Goddammit,” Hanzo snarls, releasing his hold on his own buttcheeks to scrabble for his cell on the nightstand. McCree, left arm around Hanzo’s waist and right hand prying him open, doesn’t pull away. “ _What_?” As he tries to focus on the voice at the end of the line, he reaches back behind himself and whacks at McCree’s head to deter him. He chuckles into Hanzo and crooks his finger to rub his prostate one last time before drawing away. Hanzo slides off the bed and leaves the room for privacy, brow already furrowing as the voice on the other end launches into an explanation.

When Hanzo returns, McCree is sitting back against their cushions and smoking on the bed. “What was that about?” he asks.

Hanzo doesn’t answer, climbing onto the bed and cupping his hands around McCree’s face. “Business,” he purrs, his mood restored.

“If you say so.” McCree tilts his chin up to beg for a kiss, but Hanzo only arches his eyebrows. McCree chortles. “I used mouthwash while you were gone, hand to God.”

That satisfies Hanzo, leaning in to kiss him, deep and languid, fingernails scraping into McCree’s beard. McCree grumbles against him, mouthy as ever even when he’s occupied, arms curling around Hanzo’s waist and squeezing insistently. Hanzo breaks away to press their foreheads together and smile down at him. “I have some good news.”

“Oh yeah?” McCree tilts his chin to rub the tip of his nose against Hanzo’s in an Eskimo kiss. He twists and lays Hanzo down on his back, hovering over him with his big grin and big body, warm and soft. Hanzo wants to be enveloped in his presence, wants to know nothing else but McCree’s belly laugh and deep eyes. “What’s that, honey?”

Smug, Hanzo smiles up at him and drags his hands up McCree’s chest, hair catching on his fingernails. McCree’s sigh catches on his throat, and he brings his forehead back against Hanzo’s. Hanzo wraps his legs around his waist. “We found the one who ran. We have already begun questioning him.” He lifts his hips off the bed, rolling them against McCree.

McCree hums against his shoulder, holding Hanzo’s hips in place against him and grinding lazily. “The one you didn’t tear to pieces, you mean,” he clarifies with a low rumble, trailing kisses over the tattoo on Hanzo’s right arm.

“They took you and left me no choice,” Hanzo defends, smirk tugging at his lips. McCree snorts and laughs into his skin.

“Aw, sweet pea.” His teeth scratch at a lightning bolt on Hanzo’s pectoral. “You’re cute as hell when you wanna murder people for me.”

Hanzo huffs and digs his heels into his back for leverage, starting to get desperate for more. “I would murder thousands for you,” he growls, possessive adoration seizing him in a rush. McCree moans. “I will personally track down every last soul involved, starting with this fucking Reaper.”

McCree stiffens, pulling back and away from Hanzo. “What?”

“The man who hired your kidnappers. They never got a real name, but he goes by Reaper.” He sits up, frowning. “Why? Is that familiar?”

“Fuck. Oh, Jesus.” McCree rubs his hand over his face. “He’s coming after me, oh holy fuck.” Hanzo takes his hand. He squeezes tight and takes a slow deep breath, then lets go. “Hang on. I… Hang on. I need a second.”

Hanzo nods and brushes his knuckles up McCree’s cheek before stepping away to let him process. He steps into a pair of sweatpants and slides the door open just enough to squeeze out, blocking the red husky who waits just outside.

“You are impatient, Aiko,” he grumbles, shutting the door behind him. Aiko bounces close at his heels as he goes to the kitchen, fetching a can of food and spooning the contents into her dish. McCree had balked at the amount of money Hanzo spent on a high quality of food, citing how the ranch dogs of his childhood had been perfectly happy with bowls of dry kibble. Hanzo scoffed that Aiko was no ranch dog, and furthermore, no child of Shimada Hanzo gets anything less than the best. He leans on the counter and watches her eat.

McCree emerges ten minutes later, looking calmer. The cigar between his fingers is probably helping. “Okay,” he sighs, patting Aiko’s head when she comes to him for attention. “Let’s talk.” Hanzo brews a pot of herbal tea, and they sit down at the breakfast nook. He blows steam from the top of his cup and watches McCree think, waiting for him to be ready.

“Reaper was the codename of my old commander,” he says, tapping ash onto his saucer. “Back in my Green Beret days. Real name’s Gabriel Reyes.”

The name is unfamiliar. Hanzo frowns. “When was the last contact you had with him?”

McCree sighs, rubs a hand over his brow. “None since I left eleven, twelve years ago. He didn’t want me to go, but didn’t put up much of a fight. I think he got it.” Propping his left elbow on the table, he leans against his fist and stares at the wall, cigar smoldering in his other hand. “Hadn’t been the same for a while, though. Quieter, colder. Got lost in his head a lot.”

Sentiment. Hanzo has seen the melancholy tenderness in McCree’s eyes only once before and seeing it again makes him frown. This line of thought isn’t going to get them far, anyway. “Do you know why he would do this to us?” A shake of his head.

“Last I heard, he was court-martialed a while ago. Rumor has it he blew up a whole bunch of his own men, tried to off the captain, but I didn’t think… It doesn’t sound like him.” McCree swallows. “But they said he killed himself before the trial could finish up. I thought it was over.”

Hanzo gets up and crosses the kitchen to the minibar, abandoning tea in favor of hard liquor. The feeling that McCree isn’t telling him all he knows nags at the back of his mind, but he shoves it aside. The chances he’ll give up more information without having another breakdown are probably slim. “I will have someone look into him and his most recent activities immediately.” He hands McCree a bourbon, which he takes up immediately. “This changes things. I thought this was about me and my business.” Sitting back down, he swallows down a cup of sake and pours another one. “I am putting you on leave.”

“What? Aw c’mon honey, you don’t need to do that.” McCree lowers the glass from his mouth with a grimace.

“I most certainly do,” he huffs. “You can’t do your job if you have to worry about your own safety. You should go to the safe house, I will deal with this.”

McCree scowls. “Nah. Hell no, Hanzo. I ain’t letting you take over and try to control this.” He reaches across the table for Hanzo’s hand. “We’re in this together.”

Together. Hanzo sighs, drinking booze to drown the flare of possessiveness that urges Hanzo refuse, fight him, drag him somewhere safe if he has to. He can’t lose McCree. But there’s no way McCree is going to budge on this. “Fine. You’re right,” he begrudges, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But if your safety becomes compromised, you will go. Immediately.”

McCree nods, finishes his drink, and starts cooking a midnight snack as Hanzo makes a few calls – first to Jiro, then to an informant who will be able to dig something up for him if anyone can. They eat McCree’s omelets and drink a while longer, until the buzz deep in Hanzo’s skull will, hopefully, be able to lull him to sleep. When they do return to bed, they mold to each other tenderer than before, McCree burying himself into Hanzo as if he can hide from the world in his arms.

He holds McCree close long after he’s fallen asleep, cradling him against his chest with one hand in his hair, Aiko curled around their feet. They only stir once, when the phone buzzes again at 3. Hanzo, still awake, feels for it in the dark, squinting at the bright screen until his eyes adjust to read the text message. “What is it?” McCree mumbles, stirred by Hanzo’s movement and the sudden light.

“The US.” Hanzo puts the phone down again and curls his fingers back into McCree’s hair, rubbing gently into his scalp. McCree sighs into his collarbone. “We are going to the US.”

\---

Hanzo rubs his temples to fight back the headache thudding against his skull. Damn he hates flying. McCree’s hand presses the small of his back, leading him toward baggage claim, tutting something about how he should have just taken a Xanax for the flight.

“I am fine,” Hanzo sighs. Under any other circumstances, he would nudge McCree’s arm away; they maintain strict boundaries in public for a reason. But McCree withdrew progressively further into himself over the past four days as they gathered information and prepared to depart. A brush of fingers to guide him is more welcome than Hanzo would care to admit.

Hanzo got hold of three of the aliases Reyes has been using through a hacker he hired. One of the aliases was easily traced here to California, where he’s keeping a small apartment in LA (where Reyes had grown up, McCree told him). He’d also learned that Reyes frequently disappears from the area for months at a time, likely slipping into other aliases and moving to other locations to shake off anyone who might be trying to keep an eye on him. Hanzo is still working on tracking his movements more thoroughly; he won’t rest until he safely has Reyes pinned like a bug. In the meantime LA is their best bet to gather more information, and if he hasn’t been active recently they must move quickly.

They get their luggage and the gun case with both their weapons from baggage claim, Hanzo’s head settling into a dull throb just above his neck as they escape the densest crowds and hail a cab to take them to the airport. Hanzo would prefer renting a car for the privacy and cleanliness, but they are both far too exhausted to drive safely. He had insisted they stay up the night before leaving, refusing to let jet lag interfere with his objective as much as he possibly could. They need sleep before they can do anything else. McCree dozes in the cab until they arrive at their hotel just as dusk succumbs to darkness.

As much as it pains him, the hotel Hanzo booked under a fake name is cheap and unremarkable, the last place anyone would expect to find him. Hopefully, it will throw anyone looking for them off their scent long enough for them to finish their investigation of the area and get out. He pays the driver in cash and follows McCree, still yawning, inside.

Their room is small and tacky; Hanzo is grateful they won’t be here long. Leaving their belongings in a pile mere feet from the door, McCree collapses fully dressed on the bed before Hanzo has even undone his hair. He sits down on the left side, further from the door, and grumbles about the mattress, which draws a smile out of McCree despite his weariness.

Hanzo begins unbuttoning his shirt, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. “Tell me about him,” he pleads.

In the dim light from the bedside lamp, McCree sighs. “I’ve told you everything I got, sweetie."

“I do not mean about him or his command. How he treated you.” Hanzo frowns. “What he meant to you.”

McCree huffs; Hanzo can’t tell if it’s amused or frustrated. “Ain’t gonna get jealous, are you?”

“Do I have something to be jealous of?” he questions as he takes off his pants. This time, McCree chuckles.

“Nah. No.” McCree shifts in bed behind him. “I joined the army as soon as I turned 18. I was only an adult by law, still really just a dumb kid with nowhere to go and nothing to lose. Reyes was a tough son of a bitch, but I never had no one to look up to before.” He stalls, clearing his throat. “He was the first person to see something in me, trained me for his special forces. Knocked it into my head that I could make something of myself if I tried.”

Hanzo hums thoughtfully and turns off the lamp before he lies down on his back. “You loved him.” It’s easier to say in the dark.

“’Course I did, Hanzo. He was my CO, and he believed in me.” Still defensive of a man who had been due to be dishonorably discharged until he reportedly died, who had tried to kidnap him, but Hanzo holds his tongue. He rolls to his side and drapes his arm over McCree’s hip to search for his hand. It doesn’t matter; Hanzo will make this right.

He awakens again nearly ten hours later. McCree is already in the shower, so Hanzo drags himself out of bed and downstairs to collect food from the complimentary breakfast. He downs a whole cup of coffee while he’s still piling bagels and fruit onto a plate, sorely missing his private kitchen right outside his bedroom, where he can shamble in undressed disarray and brew his own coffee. He’ll be glad to get home and lounge through mornings with McCree like usual.

McCree picks at breakfast, and Hanzo watches him with a worried frown over his coffee. After they eat, he unpacks their laptop and pulls up the file of information they’ve accumulated. He scribbles down the address they have for the apartment under Reyes’ alias. It’s near the eastern edge of the city in the Boyle Heights neighborhood, not terribly far from their downtown hotel. He relays this information to McCree, who just nods in silence, staring into nothing.

Worry chews at the bottom of Hanzo’s stomach. The sooner they get going, the sooner McCree can be his old self again. He clasps McCree’s upper arm. “Let’s go,” he urges. McCree gets his gun, dons his hat, and follows Hanzo out. They heads downstairs and out to the parking lot. McCree slides behind the wheel of their rented car, and Hanzo puts the address into the GPS.

LA, hot and stretched out against the coast, is a far cry from Tokyo. Hanzo feels exposed from all angles, the sky too big and the sun too bright. As they enter Boyle Heights, the paranoia only worsens, sun-bleached buildings hunching lower to the ground and streets becoming less populated. He unfolds a pair of sunglasses from his pocket. “I already hate this place,” he grumbles. He prefers the closeness and bustle of home, where crowds make anonymity easy.

McCree chuckles. “Aw, you’ve barely seen any of it. We should hit up Beverly Hills before we leave, do a little shopping. You’ll love it.”

Hanzo purses his lips and considers it. Beverly Hills does sound appealing. “Perhaps if we have time,” he concedes.

“Knew you’d like that.” McCree parks around the corner from the destination on the console screen. He takes a deep breath; Hanzo reaches for him and squeezes his arm.

“Stay behind me,” Hanzo instructs once they step out onto the street.

McCree huffs, petulant. “Protection is my job, y’know.”

“You are on leave,” Hanzo reminds him as he pushes the front door open and steps through. They could probably get through the back if they tried, but in broad daylight Hanzo would rather not risk getting caught breaking in. A security camera watches them from the corner of the reception, but so long as they keep a low profile, no one will have a reason to take note of them.

Hanzo stops at the front desk to confirm that Reyes is a familiar face. An old photo of Reyes in uniform is the only one he’s been able to get his hands on, but the bored young woman manning the desk blinks at the picture and calls him Mr. Vasquez, his alias.

Hanzo puts the picture away. “B204, right?” She nods. They take the elevator upstairs, checking the hall for bystanders before Hanzo pulls out his gun and knocks on the door. Behind him, McCree takes his position to one side where he won’t be an easy target right away, both hands around his revolver.

When no one answers, Hanzo takes a step back and trains a solid kick just underneath the doorknob, driving his heel in. It gives under his foot, and he rebalances and kicks again. One more kick cracks through it, the wood splintering around the lock. He throws his pistol up to meet anything that might be waiting on the other side of the door, but there’s nothing.

Hanzo nods to McCree and steps forward, creeping into the apartment. It smells stale and dusty; no one stays here long enough to really count as living in it. There’s a small kitchen to the immediate left of the entryway, which Hanzo clears before proceeding through the entrance into the living room. “Shit,” he hisses, lowering his gun a little.

A collage of pictures and documents covers the right wall, including a world map with pins scattered over the surface, string connecting the pins to photographs. Hanzo steps closer. A pin stabs into Tokyo, string drawing to a picture of McCree. Sitting in a restaurant, the back of Hanzo’s head in the corner. One of few photos that haven’t been crossed with an X in black marker. Several cardboard boxes are stacked against the corner next to a cluttered table, full of tabbed files. Hanzo selects one at random; it’s older, worn around the edges, “classified” stamped in blood red on the front. He flicks through the tabs until he finds a file labelled “McCree, J.” and pulls it out.

McCree stands frozen in front of the map, his fingers hovering over the threads. “Who are they?” Hanzo tucks the file under his arm and walks closer, skirting around a table next to the stack of boxes.

“Other soldiers. From our company.” McCree’s tongue darts over his bottom lip, his eyes following the string to the photo. “He’s after all of us. He’s—he’s not going to stop, Hanzo, he never stops—“

“I will stop him,” Hanzo cuts him off. “I will not let him harm you.”

McCree shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest, but he’s cut off by the sharp trill of a ringing phone. McCree jumps. Hanzo turns. A burner phone vibrates on the table, Spanish scrawled on a sticky note pasted to its surface. McCree picks up the phone. “Do _not_ ,” Hanzo hisses.

“Says ‘answer me.’” McCree removes the sticky note and flips the phone open before Hanzo can protest that cryptic instructions written on scraps of paper are not a good basis for making decisions. He puts it on speaker, but the throaty deep voice that purrs through speaks in Spanish, meant for McCree’s ears alone. Hanzo grinds his teeth. None of the words and phrases McCree has taught him will help him here.

Hanzo’s blood boils with the way McCree’s face turns ashen as Reyes speaks. McCree says something shaky in response, glancing sideways down at Hanzo. “Tell me,” Hanzo hisses.

“Shimada.” The voice scrapes through the speaker like sandpaper. “You can’t keep your nose out of other people’s business, can you?”

“McCree _is_ my business.” Hanzo shifts closer to speak into the phone in McCree’s hand. “And I will tear you to pieces before I allow you to lay a hand on—“

“Easy, boy,” Reyes growls. “You think you would have gotten this far if I hadn’t let you?” Hanzo blinks. Aliases easily tracked down into a minimum security in a cheap apartment, in a city he’s known to be connected to. From a man who trained for decades to operate under the radar. “I’m getting tired of your meddling and your ego. Consider this your warning, Shimada. Stay in your little criminal world where you belong.”

Hanzo bristles. “I will protect what’s mine.”

Reyes coughs out a laugh over the line. “Reconsider, Shimada, what belongs to you.” A short pause, as if Reyes is considering something. “And evacuate the apartment, in 90 seconds it will be in flames.” With that, the line clicks and goes dead.

Hanzo pulls the fire alarm in the hallway on their way out. A split second after his foot hits the bottom step on the ground floor, a low rumble shudders through the building. Hanzo stumbles to keep his footing, following McCree out the back door instead of the way they came in. “Shit,” McCree gasps, tripping over his own boots, “Oh, shit, fuck.”

“What did he say to you?” Hanzo fists both hands in McCree’s shirt, holding him in place. “What did he say?”

McCree shakes his head. “Hanzo, we don’t have time. We gotta get out of here.” Hanzo curls his lip, but McCree takes one of his hands and dislodges it from his shirt. They circle around the block to get back to their car, avoiding the larger roads they had used before. Somewhere a fire truck wails, getting louder.

In the car, McCree digs out a hip flask and takes a long drink. Hanzo accepts the flask when it’s offered, but instead of drinking he demands, “Tell me what Reyes said.”

“Christ alive, Hanzo.” McCree rubs his forehead. Something is wrong, and Hanzo can’t fix it until he knows what it is. But McCree won’t tell him, ignoring his questions, pushing the speed limit the whole way back to the hotel. Hanzo fumes, hurt and worry boiling together into a nauseous fury in his stomach. Now is not the time for him to shut Hanzo out. The file folder sits in his lap, and he worries at the edges until one corner is bent and frayed.

Five minutes into the drive, McCree feels across the car for Hanzo’s hand and grips it tight enough to hurt. Hanzo drags his hand into his lap. McCree isn’t usually quiet, not like this. Hanzo never should have brought him along, he should have followed his first instinct and sent him somewhere out of the way and impenetrable.

He’d been an idiot. From the moment panic sprang into McCree’s eyes at the word “Reaper,” Hanzo should have known to never let him get here. McCree should have never gotten so close to even a trace of him.

So he seethes in trembling silence and lets McCree focus, however much he can, on driving the rest of the short way. Hanzo gives him until the door to their hotel room shuts behind them before starting, low and tense, “Jesse, what the _hell_ —“

McCree’s hands are warm and rough, clasping around Hanzo’s face as he crushes a kiss against his lips. Hanzo gasps when he finally pulls away. “I’m sorry, sugar, darling,” he rasps.

“What is going on?” Hanzo stares up at McCree, curling his fingers around McCree’s right wrist. His pulse thrums erratically beneath them.

He takes a step back, his hands dropping away from Hanzo to fold his arms across his chest. “It’s not just him. Reyes is working with a whole bunch of folks that’re after me, said he’s been doing what he can to hold them off.”

Hanzo frowns. “Do you believe him?”

“About trying to save my skin? I don’t know.” McCree sighs, hugging himself tighter. “But he’s got a hell of a lot of resources for one dead man.” He leans his shoulder against the wall, watching Hanzo rub his beard and begin to pace.

“What else did he say? Did he give you any hints about who he’s working with, or why they would want your old company dead?” Hanzo sets the folder aside and turns to face him. “If not, we can start with old affiliates, perhaps army buddies he stayed in contact with during his discharge trial.”

“Hanzo.” McCree cuts him off with a soft voice. “I can’t let you do that.”

Hanzo snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. We must start somewhere. How else am I going to keep you safe?” He can see it on McCree’s face before he even finishes the question; uncertainty. “McCree, I _am_ going to fix this.”

“They know where to find me, they know about you. Neither of us are going to be safe if I hang around and you know it.” McCree’s voice is too even, too calm, it makes Hanzo’s blood scream. He was thinking about this in the car.

“No,” Hanzo snarls, “No. You are staying right where you are. You signed a contract. You are supposed to be my bodyguard, you would leave me unprotected?”

It’s a low blow, but McCree remains cool. Always an even head under pressure. Hanzo clenches his trembling fists. “C’mon, Hanzo. I can’t watch your back if I have to watch my own too.”

“You cannot leave!” Hanzo steps into his space, standing up straight, towering as best he can over a man who has five inches on him. “Do you not think this is what he wants? To separate us? To drive you away from me, away from where I can help you and keep you safe?”

McCree watches him. Hanzo can’t read his expression, shuttered off and distant, carefully concealing himself from Hanzo. He hadn’t noticed how open, how vulnerable McCree allowed himself to be until now that Hanzo cannot access him anymore. “You got your whole business to deal with, baby. You can’t do that and help me with this shit at the same time, you can’t.”

Hanzo holds his gaze, trying to build up arguments, defenses, anything to combat McCree’s determination. His fury cools into despair. McCree had been alone in the world when they met, avoiding attachments or obligations to others and accustomed to doing as he pleased. His independence and bullheadedness had taken months to temper, giving way only as they familiarized themselves with each other.

He is falling back on old habits. Becoming the man he was before he loved or trusted Hanzo right in front of Hanzo’s eyes. “What happened to ‘together’?”

McCree drops his gaze. “I’m sorry, Hanzo. This is different. This… this is beyond me, even you.”

“There is nothing I can say to keep you here.” The statement is like a mouthful of lead on Hanzo’s tongue.

“Nah,” McCree agrees.

Hanzo clasps his hands flat together like a prayer and brings them up to his face. Collecting himself, smothering the terror and pain that scream at him from the recesses of his mind. He can feel the seams start to tear, his body and soul threatening to fall apart. He takes a deep breath, trying to hold together, and looks back up at McCree. “All right. We should not waste any time.” McCree swallows, lips pressing together resolutely, and nods.

They haven’t been here long enough to really settle, so making sure everything is packed separately takes only five minutes. In spite of his own words, Hanzo lingers over every minute detail he can, double and triple checking the bathroom for toiletries they might have left behind, rearranging the contents of McCree’s suitcase to fit more neatly, deliberating with McCree over how big a tip he should leave for the cleaning service. Eventually McCree settles a hand on his shoulder and says, “We gotta get going, sweetie,” and he has no choice but agree.

In the car, Hanzo calls the bank to raise their withdrawal limit for the day; he won’t be able to send McCree off with much, but he’ll be damned if McCree doesn’t get every last penny Hanzo is capable of giving him.

The return to the airport is forty minutes, too long for Hanzo to convince himself this isn’t happening and too quick to accept that it is. He looks out the side window the entire way so McCree cannot see his face, already cutting him off. Make it quick; a single clean slice, like an executioner’s blade.

Once, McCree had spent an entire day educating him on the greatest hits of Billy Joel, and for over a week afterward he crooned “Only the Good Die Young” frequently when they were alone. Hanzo managed to convince him that he tolerated it with good grace, though in truth the low purr of McCree’s voice sent thrills up his spine almost as much as the soft, almost devious smile he wore as he sang did. Now, Hanzo understands. Enduring life is the punishment for his sins.

He rubs his eye dry as discreetly as he can.

They return the rental car, and Hanzo withdraws as much cash as he can from the airport’s ATM, all of which he pushes into McCree’s hands. “Try to get a fake ID as soon as you can,” he advises, not meeting McCree’s eyes. “And a passport. Destroy all traces of your previous life.”

“I will.” McCree folds the wad of hundred dollar bills and tucks it into his jeans. He shifts on his feet, reluctant to move. Hanzo can’t follow him any further; he needs to buy a plane ticket, and it’s for the best that Hanzo doesn’t know where he goes. Hanzo steps forward.

McCree practically falls into his arms, stooping over to nuzzle into Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo threads one hand into his hair.

It creeps up on him like a chill up his spine; he might never see McCree again.

“Jesse, I love you,” Hanzo whispers, his voice scraped raw.

His arms curling around Hanzo’s waist, McCree crushes them together. “I love you,” he repeats. Hanzo’s heart breaks; he would give up his whole empire to never let such a quivering, broken tone enter McCree’s voice again.

McCree extracts himself. He kisses Hanzo too tenderly and too quickly, sealing them together for four, five seconds. A fake smile wavers over McCree’s lips when he pulls back, tipping Hanzo’s chin with his fingers. “And hey. We’re still together, ain’t nothing gonna change that. You always got me, baby, right here.” He taps his knuckles gently on Hanzo’s chest.

His parting words are a bravado, a performance to distance himself and weaken the blow for them both. Had he not, Hanzo probably wouldn’t have been able to let him go. His hold loosens, enough for McCree to escape and turn around. Hanzo can barely breathe, everything inside him aching as he watches McCree walk away from him. His broad shoulders are hunched, but he strides sure and certain. Hanzo’s stomach rises up his throat. _Running is all he knows._

Hanzo takes the next connecting flight to Tokyo, choking back sleeping pills to keep himself oblivious through as much of it as he can, and he goes home, where everything still looks the same. McCree’s dirty laundry hanging carelessly over the edge the hamper, his lucky horseshoe over the bedroom door, his lingering smell of cedar and smoke.

The cotton serape hangs off the end of their bed. Hanzo’s heart clenches. They had argued about it before they left. McCree had wanted to take it with them; Hanzo had insisted it was unnecessary, was too distinctive, and was hardly weather appropriate. Why had he been so harsh? McCree took comfort in the old rag. Now he was out there, somewhere, without it. Hanzo picks it up, rubbing his fingers over the fabric pills and frays along the edge, then drapes it around his shoulders and holds it up to his nose before he returns to the kitchen.

He retrieves the file folder from where he’d tucked it in with his luggage and lays it down on the kitchen table, staring at the blank pale cover. He doesn’t know what he might find inside or what good it will even do him. Fear of what he might learn grows in his chest and sticks in his ribs like mold.

As he retrieves a bottle of absinthe, the strongest thing in the apartment, he can imagine McCree is simply in the other room, the heaviness of his footsteps thumping in his head like a ghost. He’ll come back any minute, smile growing across his face and big warm hands seeking purchase anywhere on Hanzo’s body. He’ll smoke and fix them dinner, tell Hanzo he pushes himself too hard.

When he pulls Hanzo into one of his crushing bear hugs, Hanzo will feel his rumbling chuckle vibrate through him, and that’s how he will know McCree is here, with Hanzo, happy and safe, where he belongs.

Hanzo sits down and starts to drink.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a commission for [loogarou](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loogarou/pseuds/loogarou). thank you!!
> 
> this chapter is a hard M.

Hanzo polishes off his third – no, maybe fourth – cup of sake and wonders whether it’s time to break out something stronger. He’d already be well on his way to blacked out by now, were it not for the bodyguard who has evidently decided his duties include babysitter.

“Gonna tell me what’s been eating you lately, boss?” Hanzo grimaces; McCree sits across from him, nursing his own drink despite Hanzo’s assurance he didn’t need to stay. He is more than accustomed to drinking alone, though McCree’s silence until now had made his companionship acceptable.

“I do not intend to, no.” Hanzo stands, crossing the kitchen for the whiskey decanter on the minibar. McCree has been under his employ for almost eight months, instituting security protocols and investigating everyone in Hanzo’s closest circles, and the ease with which he makes himself comfortable in Hanzo’s personal life continues to perplex Hanzo.

The sheer agonizing allure of McCree’s lazy charm and rugged looks only complicates things further.

“You been a sour puss all week, you’re gonna alienate staff and piss off rivals if you ain’t careful. As your head of security, I think I should know if something’s happened to change the game.” McCree leans his cheek on his fist.

Hanzo grunts. “It is personal,” he relents. McCree studies him across the table, but doesn’t push anymore. He’s let the matter go by the end of his next drink, and once Hanzo has drained the glass of the drink after that he’s admitting, “I have committed unspeakable atrocities in my lifetime, Jesse McCree. You would balk at the blood on these hands.”

McCree snorts and reaches for the decanter. “Try me, Mr. Shimada. I joined the army the second I aged out of the foster system.” He rolls his left sleeve up to the elbow and exposes his prosthetic. “‘Bout six or seven years ago, we were trying to get control of some militant extremists, but we were outmanned. My commanding officer ordered a retreat.” He pauses for a mouthful of whiskey, hissing through the burn. “I went back for someone. Knew it was a stupid decision, but I thought, how can I live with myself if I leave someone behind?”

He tilts his glass, rotating it to watch the whiskey inside swirl. “Grenade hit before we got out of there. He bled out, my arm got torn to pieces.” He shrugs. “Sometimes there ain’t a right choice. Sometimes the choices don’t even really matter, in the end everything’s gonna turn up shitty anyway. Either way, you gotta figure out how you’re gonna live with it.”

The sincerity in his gruff voice, the way he averts his eyes away from Hanzo as he bares his soul. For what? To assuage a little of Hanzo’s own guilt? It squeezes around Hanzo’s ribs, constricting him, binding him in place. He had not asked for McCree to lay himself out and make himself vulnerable at Hanzo’s feet. Hell, he hadn’t asked McCree to be here at all, but here he was. Braving his boss’s bitterness and poor coping mechanisms to provide something like camaraderie.

Hanzo considers himself quite adept at holding his sexual frustrations at bay. He is rarely desperate enough to expose himself to prostitutes or random strangers in bars. But never, in years, had anyone exposed themselves for him voluntarily like this.

Hanzo stands, steps around the table, and grabs McCree by the chin. For a moment, he studies McCree’s face (scarred eyebrow, weather-beaten skin, chapped lips, deep eyes framed with crow’s feet) before bending down to crush a kiss against his mouth. The brim of McCree’s hat knocks against his forehead. McCree grunts and strains up into him, his hands finding Hanzo’s thighs and sliding up his hips. He tastes of alcohol and ash. He tugs at Hanzo’s hips, trying to drag him into his lap, but Hanzo stands his ground. He pulls away, cupping his hands around McCree’s bristly cheeks.

“Come with me,” he states.

McCree blinks and smiles languidly. “Whatever you say, boss.” Hanzo smirks and drops his hands to the collar of McCree’s shirt, pulling him to his feet. They leave the glasses and liquor out on the table, Hanzo never entirely loosening his grip on McCree’s person as he leads him to the bedroom.

As soon as they step through the door, Hanzo rounds on him and kisses him soundly, pulling his hat off and discarding it carelessly, then he snags two handfuls at the hem of his shirt. “Off,” he growls, tugging insistently.

The low rumble of McCree’s chuckle vibrates against Hanzo’s chest. “All right, all right.” He pulls away to unbutton his shirt and drop it to the floor. He falls onto the bed as soon as it’s out of the way, and Hanzo climbs up to straddle McCree’s hips. Standing on his knees, he appraises McCree spread below him. Relishes for a moment in having the man all to himself, in the flesh. Finally.

McCree isn’t interested in letting him revel for long, sitting up and getting an arm around his waist to flip their positions. Hanzo huffs as he’s thrown on his back. McCree bears down on him, hot and crushing, one big hand cupping Hanzo’s pec over his shirt. He kisses Hanzo like he’s going to devour him; Hanzo doesn’t think he would mind that. His beard scratches Hanzo’s skin as he mouths along the line of Hanzo’s jaw and down the curve of his neck.

Hanzo slides his hands up McCree’s torso to feel the soft curves and to wind around his shoulders, but his fingers catch on the harness circling his right shoulder. “Let me sit up.” Hanzo pushes at McCree’s chest, meaty and wiry with chest hair. “McCree, let me sit up.”

“Jesse,” he says, drawing himself back enough to let Hanzo scoot up and sit back against the headboard. “Please, call me Jesse.”

He frames McCree’s face with his hands, pulling him in for a slow, gentle kiss. “Jesse,” he whispers. The intimacy of it feels right on his tongue. He fingers the harness. “May I?” McCree nods, gaze never leaving Hanzo’s face as his hand follows the strap over McCree’s shoulder and finds the buckle. He pulls it loose carefully, and McCree helps him drag it over his head. Hanzo slides his other hand over the silicone glove, studying it as he feels his way up to the elbow. The difference is obvious where synthetic meets organic; hair and freckles and an occasional scar adorn McCree’s body with life, every inch of him an indication of the struggle to keep himself alive.

Hanzo loosens the glove around the socket to pull it off easier, but a hitch in McCree’s breathing stops him immediately. He looks up. McCree’s eyes are glistening. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” McCree tilts forward a few inches to bump their foreheads together. “Nothing at all.” He kisses Hanzo through it as Hanzo pulls the prosthesis off, tender little pecks at the corner of his mouth. Hanzo leans over to reach the bedside table, setting the arm carefully within reach.

He holds McCree’s elbow, where a stump a few inches long remains of his forearm. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” McCree lets him gingerly touch the scar tissue, his kisses dragging up to Hanzo’s ear. “Sometimes it feels like it’s still there, and I forget. Don’t think I’ll ever be used to it.”

Hanzo hums and leans over to ever so gently kiss the crook of his elbow. “There is no one like you.” His mouth travels up to McCree’s shoulder while his hands dip down to unbuckle his belt. His voice deepens to a growl. “God, did I look. I have wanted you for so long.” McCree’s pants open, Hanzo curls an arm around his neck to tug him in closer, other hand delving into his jeans. McCree’s breath flutters in a shuddering gasp against Hanzo’s temple. “But no one compares, no one satisfied my desire for you.”

“Fucking hell, Hanzo.” McCree’s voice is caught between a groan and a laugh. “Do you have any idea how many times—how close I was to just saying ‘fuck it—‘” He tucks two fingers between the buttons of Hanzo’s shirt, popping the first two open. “You uh, sure you want to do this?”

The warm tingle of alcohol isn’t strong enough to cloud Hanzo’s judgment that much. He snorts and pulls his hand out of McCree’s pants as punishment. “If I do not fuck you tonight, I will never do so again. Do you understand me?”

McCree smirks and strokes Hanzo’s shoulder to brush his shirt off. “Perfectly.” Hanzo shrugs his shirt off the rest of the way and leans back against the headboard, watching with a satisfied smile as McCree traces his tattoos down his chest to his side. “These suit you. Wanted to touch ‘em since I saw ‘em.”

“Touch all you want.” Hanzo shivers under McCree’s exploring hands, his tattoos forming a trail down his stomach to his waistband. He wastes no time getting them loose and tugging them out of the way, Hanzo lifting his hips to help with it.

McCree draws back just enough to wriggle out of his own pants, so Hanzo retrieves lube and condoms. He reclines back against his mountain of pillows and savors the sight of McCree, immense and unashamed as he crowds back into Hanzo’s space.

“You’re gorgeous. Goddamn royalty,” McCree murmurs, leaning forward to seal their mouths together. His residual left arm feels unfamiliar on Hanzo’s back, used to a hand. “Tell me what you want.” Hanzo slides both his hands around McCree’s middle, squeezing love handles just to make him grunt and press closer before Hanzo continues down to his ass.

Hanzo chuckles and teases with the tips of his index and middle fingers. He grins wickedly. “I want you to turn around.” McCree arches his eyebrows, but a smile starts to creep over his face as he gets up and shuffles around to settle backward in Hanzo’s lap. Hanzo hums appreciatively and dances his fingers down the ridges of McCree’s spine, watching it arch in response. Beautiful. “Wait.” McCree twists to look at him curiously over his shoulder. “Grab that first.” Hanzo gestures down to the floor, and McCree laughs.

“Figures,” he chuckles, bending over the edge of the bed and balancing to snatch his discarded hat. He sits up, plants the hat on his head. “Better?”

Hanzo smiles. “Perfect.” He squeezes lube onto his right hand and uses his left to knead and pull at the soft mass of McCree’s butt. McCree’s back arches, shoulder blades pulling back and making his flesh roll. Hanzo watches, mystified by the way his body moves, better than he had ever imagined.

McCree reaches behind himself to grab Hanzo’s hip, steadying himself as Hanzo digs deeper. “Aw shit,” he hisses. It takes all of Hanzo’s self-restraint not to give him everything he can take and just a little more, test his limits, make him fall apart.

He withdraws his hand from McCree, pets his hairy thigh when he gripes about the loss of contact. “Do not whine,” he tuts.

“I’m gonna shove my fingers up your ass and tell you not to whine,” McCree snorts.

Hanzo chuckles and leans forward to kiss between his shoulder blades. “I insist that you do, on another occasion.” The promise of another time shuts McCree up enough for Hanzo to smirk in triumph as he rolls on a condom and gets more lubricant.

McCree is practiced and precise, following Hanzo’s guiding hands down and rolling his hips with it. But it’s not enough, it’s not what Hanzo wants. Restraint is not what he wants from McCree. “If this is all you have got, I have severely miscalculated.”

McCree grunts and lifts himself up, hovering for a split second before slamming back down hard and sudden enough to make Hanzo yelp in surprise. McCree laughs low in his throat. Reddening, Hanzo grinds his teeth and grabs McCree’s hips, blunt fingernails digging in, bucking up until McCree is gasping; he’s not about to let McCree think he has any kind of upper hand.

“Jesse,” he hisses. McCree tenses, his shoulders hunching. Hanzo sits up further to wrap an arm around McCree’s waist, and with Hanzo’s hand on him McCree doesn’t take much more. He arches, his head on Hanzo’s shoulder, hat falling back. He turns his face to nuzzle and pant against Hanzo’s neck as he rides through it.

McCree falters in his rhythm only a moment, not letting up until Hanzo gasps his name and holds him tighter as his orgasm floods his senses. Warmth swells in his veins, pulsing hard against his skin. He pulls away and drops back, breath sliding deep into lungs. McCree drags away from him and off the bed and shuffles into Hanzo’s bathroom. Hanzo sighs and gazes up at the ceiling a minute, letting himself settle into a haze of contentment. How long had it been since he had sex without mistrust, without the urgency to pull himself together and get out as quickly as he could once his needs had been, more or less, satisfied?

He heaves himself back to reality to dispose of the condom and put away the lube. McCree emerges cleaned up and seeming totally comfortable walking around stark naked. Hanzo picks up his boxers and considers them, then throws them in the hamper and gets out a new pair. “Now what?” McCree asks.

Hanzo tries to maintain a neutral face. “You may stay the night here if you wish. You are… good company.”

“Well, I’m tickled.” McCree sits on the bed and scratches his beard. “I don’t know what you’re expecting here, Hanzo, but I… I can’t promise nothing. Ain’t much of one for settling down.”

“I know.” His contract is up in five months. Hanzo joins him in bed, lying down and basking in simply having McCree here and now. He can’t remember the last time he trusted, respected, or enjoyed another’s presence so much. “I do not expect you to return my... feelings, nor do I expect anything else from you.”

McCree reaches for him, wraps him in his arms. “I joined the yakuza when I was 19,” Hanzo says suddenly. McCree, already half-asleep, blinks down at him. “My brother got into trouble, and I joined to settle his debt. I did not want him connected to it in any way, but he was always stubborn, and was annoyed at me for cleaning up his mess like he was a child.” McCree’s steady heartbeat against his cheek helps to ground him in the present, though the memories threaten to drag him back. His fingernails bite his palm, fist wedged between their bodies. “He continued associating with them, running small errands and relaying messages. We argued often.  It was on this day that it happened, ten years ago now. One of our arguments led to a fight, and I…”

“Hey, hey,” McCree murmurs, stroking his hand up and down his back, “I’ve got you.”

“I did not mean to,” Hanzo can’t stop himself now, an avalanche of guilt and self-loathing plummeting forth from where it had been buried deep. “I was so angry, I was not thinking, I could not control myself.”

McCree tightens his arm around him, sheltering him as hot tears leak out of his eyes. Hanzo sucks air into his lungs, breathing in McCree’s scent as he does. “Why’d you stay? Had to make being with the yakuza pretty bitter.”

“Deserting the yakuza is not easy. We had abandoned our childhood home together. I had nowhere else to go.” He raises his hand to wipe at his face, annoyed that his grasp on his emotions is slipping. Damn alcohol, damn good sex. “And I did not deserve anything better. I was a criminal, a sinner, a murderer. Of my own family. This is where I belong now, in the underbelly. After a few years, I thought… If this is my world now, I ought to at least make of it what I could. Perhaps I could… try to use this to help the common people, do something to redeem some of the wrongs I have committed.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But I could only do that from the top. So I devoted myself to becoming more powerful.”

McCree is silent for a long time. Hanzo tries not to fidget, scared of what he may be thinking, whether he may be about to get up and leave. Hanzo wouldn’t blame him. But he doesn’t; he holds Hanzo as close as before and eventually crooks his neck to press a kiss against Hanzo’s forehead. “Just sleep.” He chuckles, and Hanzo feels his whole chest shake. “In the morning, I’ll make you the best damn breakfast you’ve ever tasted.”

“You had best not disappoint me,” Hanzo huffs, shutting his eyes. He falls asleep feeling McCree’s nose pressed into his hair and his arms warm around him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is hard E.

In Boston, even indoors is too chilly for Hanzo’s taste. He tugs his coat collar up around his neck and drinks mulled rum. He hunches in a booth for privacy, though there isn’t much threat of losing privacy here; he arrived for its opening at noon and in the forty minutes he’s been here, only a young couple had come in.

He’s beckoning the bartender over when the couple departs, once more leaving him the only patron. He checks his watch; over an hour now.

He recognizes the look the bartender gives him when he asks for another rum rather than paying for his bill. Thinly veiled sympathy and mild curiosity for what would drive a man into the escape of a dive bar in the middle of the day. Usually it annoys him, but today, he has a purpose other than dulling some ache or another before returning to work.

Halfway through the second drink, the door swings open, and Hanzo looks up. Three women enter chatting amongst themselves and line up on bar stools across the room. He huffs and raises his glass to his lips. A draft sweeps in when the door opens a second time. Hanzo lowers his drink.

The beard is gone, exposing cheeks and a jawline, but he would recognize those eyes and the slope of those shoulders anywhere. Standing in the doorway, hat on his head and larger than life as always, McCree falters like he’s about to trip when he sees Hanzo. Hanzo lifts out of his seat. There isn’t any air in his lungs; no oxygen, he’s full of helium and a burst of warmth from beneath his breastbone.

Fuck privacy or decorum. They crash together in the middle of the room, Hanzo’s feet leaving the ground as McCree lifts him. He digs his fingertips into the hollows of his cheeks, holding him as if there’s any chance he won’t kiss Hanzo with equal the fervor Hanzo rains down on him.

He wants to never stop kissing McCree. He would happily tangle his mouth against McCree’s until there’s no chance they could ever be untied. But in spite of himself, giddiness swells up in his chest and bubbles into his throat. He chokes on his laughter, giggling against McCree as McCree carries him back to his booth and nearly collapses trying to sit him back down.

“You’re losing your goddamn marbles,” McCree says, and Hanzo manages to stifle his hysterics enough to drag him in for another kiss.

“I am, without you.” Hanzo shifts, making room so McCree can sit properly next to him. The calluses on McCree’s thumb chafe against Hanzo’s cheek as he wipes away a tear. Hanzo swallows against the knot in his throat. “I’ve missed you, desperately.”

McCree wraps an arm around him, curling closer as best he can. “I know, baby. I tried to contact you earlier, but it just wasn’t safe. I had to make sure.” He runs his fingers through Hanzo’s hair, loose of his usual ponytail. “Were you this gray last time I saw you?”

Hanzo leans into his touch. “Yes,” he says, defensively, to make McCree chuckle and kiss one of his salt and pepper temples. He pinches McCree’s bare chin and frowns. “I hate this.”

“Aw, hell, I knew you would. Gotta make myself a little less recognizable.” He tips the baseball cap on his head pointedly.

Hanzo sighs. His chest aches with the familiarity of their banter, a luxury he’d grown unaccustomed to having. “How long are you here?”

“Can’t stay in one place long. Even one extra day to be with you is risky.” Hanzo frowns. Less than twenty-four hours to make up for the past twenty months of being apart. McCree orders a drink, and Hanzo fills the space by talking about how business has been going. He keeps his hand on McCree’s thigh the entire time, assuring himself he is corporeal and present, and McCree holds Hanzo against his side with an arm around his shoulders.

It anchors them together, but it isn’t enough. Hanzo’s life has been devoid of the man for just shy of two years, never knowing whether he was even still alive. He called Hanzo on a payphone two days ago and told him to be here today, no specific time. Hanzo hadn’t wasted a second, and now he itches to make up for lost time, to prove to McCree and to himself that his devotion hasn’t faded.

McCree is evidently of a similar mind, as he finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the table, and says, “I got a room two blocks down, if we want a little more privacy.”

“Yes.” Hanzo leaves cash on the table to cover their drinks, and they depart. They maintain an appropriate amount of contact as they walk to Hanzo’s rented Mercedes, touches confined mostly to hands and thighs for the brief ride. That much takes every ounce of Hanzo’s self-restraint. He drums against the steering wheel just to give his fingers something to do.

Hanzo wouldn’t have expected McCree to be staying anywhere but the unremarkable motel they come to. The metal stairs clang under their feet as they climb one after the other, the staircase too narrow to remain at each other’s sides. Hanzo takes the opportunity to grab the seat of McCree’s jeans and squeeze, which makes him laugh and spring up the last few steps quicker.

They stumble into room 208 already tugging at clothes and kissing every inch of exposed skin they can find. Hanzo kicks the door shut, and McCree crowds him against it. His hands flutter down Hanzo’s side to cup his ass then dip a little further down to lift him by his thighs.

Hanzo rolls his hips in what little room McCree gives him, kissing him and clinging to him, desperate to imprint his taste and smell and feel into memory. McCree carries him to the bed, and Hanzo can’t stop the huff of laughter that whooshes out of his lungs when McCree drops him down. “Shit, I reckon you can’t get any cuter than this.” Hanzo smirks. He’d deliberated long and hard over how to dress; his usual suits seemed a little conspicuous, but he’d be damned if he didn’t look his best when McCree saw him for the first time in close to two years. He had settled on skinny jeans and a black t-shirt that hugs close around his biceps and chest.

McCree’s hands roam across his torso. “Tell me what you want,” he hisses, “Anything, Hanzo. Goddamn, what I’ve imagined doing for you…”

“Tell me.” Hanzo reaches up to unbutton his shirt without breaking eye contact. “I want to know every detail.”

McCree leans forward and kisses him, languorously, as though they have all the time in the world. Hanzo presses his tongue between McCree’s parted lips, scraping against his teeth a little. He wants to taste, fill, possess McCree down to every inch of him he can possibly reach.

He only breaks away when his lungs ache for more air, and he clasps both hands around McCree’s face so he can’t pull back too far. “Tell me,” he repeats in a whisper.

McCree smiles under Hanzo’s grasp. “I just want to please you, Hanzo. I want you to use me. Take me for all I’m worth, baby.”

Hanzo hums, smirks, and deftly flips them to throw McCree to his back.  He plants a tender kiss on McCree’s forehead before turning to his pants. He rubs his hand up the bulge in McCree’s crotch and tugs his belt buckle loose. The same old brass he’d had for as long as Hanzo has known him, now dull and dark with age. McCree lifts his hips to help him tug his pants out of the way, but instead of doing so Hanzo pulls the belt free of his belt loops.

“I should throw this out,” he says, slipping the cracking leather behind McCree’s neck and pulling it around. “You are lucky it’s still useful.” McCree swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple hidden under his own belt buckle as it settles beneath his chin, and says nothing. His eyes gleam with anticipation. Hanzo admires the sight of him like this for a brief moment, then twists his wrist to wrap the end of the belt around his hand for a better grip. “Now,” he instructs, concise and even, “You will hold completely still while I fuck myself on you. Understand?”

McCree flashes a wide grin. “Of course, honey.” His sincerity is doubtful, but Hanzo decides he will simply deal with that when they come to it.

Hanzo climbs out of the way just enough for both of them to strip everything else out of the way, regaining his hold on the belt as quickly as he can. It nips at Hanzo’s palms; he wonders what kind of marks it will leave on McCree’s neck, whether passersby will be able to tell what caused them. How often McCree will see or feel them and remember who had mastered such a wild stallion as he.

Lubricant is amongst McCree’s belongings, unsurprisingly. Hanzo follows McCree’s instructions to find it and squeezes a copious amount into his palm. McCree exhales heavily when Hanzo spreads the lube along the length of his dick. The weight and girth of it in Hanzo’s hand is as familiar as if they’d never been separated. He straddles McCree’s hips and reaches behind himself with his free hand to hold McCree steady and sink slowly down onto him.

“Jesus Christ on a cross,” McCree groans as Hanzo pauses to relax. It wouldn’t be so much if he’d prepared himself, but dammit if he didn’t want to wait for a second longer. “Shit, Hanzo, you’re so fucking... tight. When’s the last time anyone fucked you?”

Hanzo stills, hand on the belt slackening. “I have not…” He pauses, hesitates. “Have you?”

McCree smiles, his eyebrows dipping over his eyes. “Once or twice, a while ago, got a little too tipsy. It wasn’t nothing. There ain’t no one else for me but you.” He rests his head back now that Hanzo isn’t holding him a few inches off the mattress. “But I figure… Well, it’s been a long time, and you get so stressed.” He pets Hanzo’s knee. “Want you taking care of yourself, now. Don’t go denying yourself and getting all bottled up just ‘cause I’m not around, y’hear?”

Hanzo nods mutely, though he has no intention of making good on it. He has no taste for someone who isn’t smoky, rough, soft McCree. He tightens his grip again, lifting McCree up by the neck just enough that he has to use his elbows to support his weight, and resumes until he is seated against McCree’s hips. McCree is tense with the effort to stay still.

“You will always be mine.” Hanzo shifts his hips to adjust the angle, chin tilting as McCree’s dick glides against his prostate. He picks up his pace. “I do not care who you fuck, never forget you are mine.” McCree hisses half-formed expletives.

He times his rebellion perfectly; just as Hanzo begins to rock back down onto him, McCree grabs him by his thighs and thrusts his hips up as hard as he can. Hanzo gasps. He jerks the belt, squeezing McCree’s windpipe until he’s wheezing to draw in air, but his parted lips curl into a loose self-satisfied smile when Hanzo looks down at him. “You little shit,” Hanzo tuts, “You will pay for that.”

“Will I?” McCree manages to pant out with a breathless chuckle. “How’s that?”

Hanzo readjusts the belt buckle and tightens it further around McCree’s neck. McCree’s eyes roll back a little, fighting for breath. Hanzo watches his face contort, eyebrows drawing together and jaw falling slack as Hanzo keeps riding him. “Better,” he sighs. McCree only responds with a strangled moan.

He closes his eyes and focuses on his own pleasure, McCree’s noises only spurring him on further. He can feel his climax nearing, a tight heat deep in his gut threatening to break, when McCree seizes the opportunity to push Hanzo away and clamber out from under him, yanking the belt from his grasp as he does. Hanzo hisses with the sudden emptiness. “Jesse!” he gasps.

McCree shushes him, sliding into place behind him and kissing his shoulder. “I’m right here, I got you,” he purrs as his arm curls around Hanzo’s waist. He slides back into Hanzo, who grapples behind him until he finds the belt again and gives it a harsh tug. McCree rasps out a chuckle.

“You have a lot of nerve,” Hanzo grumbles, pressing one hand against the wall behind the bed to hold himself upright.

“Don’t be mad. You know you’re still the boss.” McCree grabs Hanzo’s cock and rubs his thumb over the slit just to toy with him, then sets a rhythm to match the thrust of his hips. Hanzo ducks his head and stutters out a moan. “Is that it, baby?”

Hanzo pulls on the leather in his hand, dragging him to press flush against Hanzo’s back. Sweat drips off his brow onto the pillows. “Do not forget who owns you.”

“You do. Always will.” McCree mouths at the crook of Hanzo’s neck. “You’ve got me, heart and soul.”

Hanzo grinds his teeth and cants his hips back desperately to take as much as he can before he’s shuddering apart. McCree wrings him through it, merciless. “Stop, stop,” he gasps, oversensitive, and McCree withdraws his hand obediently. McCree pulls back and out of him, and Hanzo frowns blearily over his shoulder. “I did not tell you to do that.”

“Guess you didn’t,” McCree chuckles, flopping down onto his back. “Sorry, sugar, didn’t think you were ready for that much yet. Next time.” Hanzo scoots further down the bed, leaning over to take over McCree’s hand on his own erection. “You don’t gotta—”

Hanzo cuts him off. “I want to.” He kisses up the side of his cock.

“Insatiable as ever,” McCree huffs. Hanzo drags his tongue over the head in response. “I was just up your ass, you know.” Hanzo snorts and glances up at him, propped up on his elbows.

“I washed a total of three times before coming to meet you. My ass has never been cleaner.” McCree’s roll of laughter shakes the bed under Hanzo as he reaches over McCree for the lube he’d set aside.

“Lay back, I will do this.” McCree obeys, amusement softening into something more tender in his face. He wastes no time spreading lubricant over his fingers and pressing one into McCree carefully. “I saw the dildo you keep with the lubricant.” His eyes flick up from what he’s doing to look at McCree, watching him with something akin to reverence. “Do you think of me, when you use it?”

“Every time,” McCree rumbles. “Every damn time, Hanzo, you – fuck – you’re some kind of drug, don’t want nothing but you.”

Hanzo hums, satisfied, and kisses the tip of his dick before opening his mouth wide and sinking down around him. McCree grunts, right hand finding the back of Hanzo’s head and threading his fingers into his hair. “I’ll never have enough of you,” McCree says, mouth free to ramble without anything else to occupy it. “Shit, your mouth— your dick— in a hundred years no one could compare.” His hips twitch when Hanzo hollows his cheeks, sucking at the same time he adds another finger and curls them.

McCree only lasts another couple more thrusts; his fingernails dig into Hanzo’s scalp, and he breathes a strangled, “Hanzo,” in warning. Hanzo swallows him down, grimacing as McCree’s hips jerk up convulsively. He sits up, thumbing a stray trail of semen off his chin and sucking it away. “Hot damn,” McCree breathes.

Exhaustion drags at Hanzo’s bones, but he sets about getting a towel from the bathroom and wiping them both clean before he allows himself to collapse.

Already half-asleep, McCree cracks one eye open and manages a lazy smile as Hanzo plasters himself to his side. Hanzo drags his hand over McCree’s chest, tangling fingers in his thick hair. McCree is warm, a veritable human furnace who ensnares Hanzo in his arms and whines when he tries to struggle away or kick the covers off to escape the heat. He’d forgotten that. Hanzo swallows, dread creeping up his throat. He’d forgotten.

“Come home,” he pleads, barely above a whisper.

McCree sighs. “You know I can’t.”

He sits up and levels a burning stare down at McCree. “Do not tell me what I know,” he snaps. “You belong with me in Japan. You will be just as safe there as you are anywhere else. You cannot run from your problems forever.”

“Is that right?” McCree rises to meet his gaze at eye level. “What do you want me to do, Hanzo? I ain’t gonna risk them going after you. They haven’t stopped, nearly got me in Georgia last week. You want me to just let them kill me?”

“Let me help you! They already know I am involved. You think they will believe the cover I set in place just to come here? They surely know I am with you.” His fists tremble, fingernails biting into his palms. “But I have resources, defenses, we can wait for them to come and dispose of them.”

McCree snorts and pushes his hand through his hair. “These ain’t your goddamn thugs, these are professionals. Trained, definitely ex-military. Nothing like what you’ve dealt with before.”

“But you have. Together we can take care of this!” Hanzo swallows, drawing in a deep breath. “Please, Jesse.”

“I can’t. I won’t. It’s too risky.” McCree’s face softens, cupping Hanzo’s cheek with his right hand.

His touch cracks Hanzo to the core. He drops his gaze. “I do not know how much longer I can do this. I need you back.”

McCree gathers him in his arms. “I’m doing everything I can to come back to you, baby. I swear.” He drags Hanzo down to the pillows and tangled sheets, cooing songs huskily into Hanzo’s ear until he relaxes. They cling to each other in their sleep, and when they wake in the wee hours of the morning they grapple together again. Hanzo’s hand around McCree’s dick is sloppy, but McCree doesn’t seem to care, gasping hot breaths into the crook of Hanzo’s neck as he spills into his hand. Hanzo kisses his sweaty temple.

McCree sits up to rifle through his discarded jeans for a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Gotta say, I miss those deep pockets of yours,” he says, offering the package to Hanzo, who selects the least crushed of the remaining cigarettes. “Can’t get good smokes on a fugitive’s budget.”

“Not smoking would be even cheaper,” Hanzo points out. McCree laughs around the cigarette between his teeth.

“It sure would.” He lights up and hands the lighter off to Hanzo. Hanzo climbs off the bed, shaking out his pants before tugging them on. “Got somewhere to be, sugar?”

Hanzo zips his fly and removes the cigarette from his mouth with his knuckles before speaking. “We should eat. There is a convenience store across the street, I will just get something there.” McCree nods and starts to rise, but Hanzo places a hand on his shoulder to keep him down. “I will be quick.”

McCree huffs but stays. “Getting sick of me already, huh?” Hanzo rolls his eyes and pulls his shirt on over his head. Drawing his jacket close around himself, he steps out into the cold night and walks across the street to the store, shining like a fluorescent beacon. They will have to settle for snacks; he gets bottled water, protein bars, a bag of chips, and a sleeve of cookies he knows McCree likes. Hardly the kind of quality meal Hanzo would normally partake in, but it will suffice.

A shiver laces up his spine as he steps up onto the sidewalk in front of the motel, which is the only warning he gets before a heavy blunt pain explodes across his right shoulder blade, the force of the blow throwing him forward. Hanzo catches his balance and whirls around to face his ambusher. He’s hard to distinguish in the dark, his dark hoodie and black beanie camouflaging him with the night. His weapon, a tarnished tire iron, swings from his right hand.

Hanzo drops his bag and shifts his posture, lowering his center of gravity and squaring his shoulders. No weapons. Caught off guard. He is at a hard disadvantage, and his assailant launches for him before he can figure out how to retaliate.

He throws himself sideways to avoid the tire iron crashing down toward his skull and kicks below the man’s ribs. The stranger snarls and abandons the iron, letting it clatter to the pavement to whirl on Hanzo. Without such a cumbersome weapon, his movements are faster than Hanzo expects, his fists difficult to deflect without losing track of his legs and their surroundings. Hanzo catches an opening; he leaves himself open, first with the tire iron and now with a wide swing. Hanzo lunges to take advantage of it.

The stranger twists out of the way, uses Hanzo’s momentum against him by delivering a solid kick to his backside and knocking him off balance. The best he can do to save himself is shield his face with his arm and absorb most of the fall with his shoulder.

“Sloppy,” tuts the stranger, “You are impatient. Reckless. How do you think you can protect him if you take so many unnecessary risks?”

His voice is familiar, a small but powerful phantom at the edges of Hanzo’s memory. “Reyes?”

Reyes huffs, picks up the tire iron off the cement, and looms over Hanzo. “I wondered if you’d be dumb enough to come. You should get out of here. Now.”

A shadow creeps along the edges of Hanzo’s vision, beyond Reyes’ head. Hanzo keeps his eyes steadily on Reyes as he picks himself up and straightens his clothes. “Why? What do you want with him, if you won’t kill him?”

Reyes curls his lip. “You're not in much of a position to be making demands--” The small snicker of a gun cocking cuts through the crisp air. Reyes freezes. McCree stands behind him, his revolver trained steadily on the back of Reyes’ head. He must have heard the scuffle from inside, on high alert for danger.

“Y’all right, sweetpea?” His glare never softens away from Reyes.

Hanzo brushes dirt off his sleeve, grimacing when a muscle in his back complains about the gesture. He will likely be sore for days. “I will survive,” he replies, a phrase McCree taught him the first morning Hanzo fussed over finger-shaped bruises on McCree’s thighs.

“McCree,” Reyes growls, “There isn't much time, they're coming. I can get you somewhere safe.”

“You're supposed to be dead, why in blue blazes should I trust you?”

A black windowless van peels around the corner and squeals to a stop at the edge of the block. “Trust me or get shot.” Reyes says with a shrug. McCree looks at Hanzo.

Grinding his teeth, Hanzo grabs the front of Reyes’ hoodie and pushes him. “Come on, go!” he snaps. The van door rattles open just enough for the muzzle of a rifle to poke out and fire a shot at Hanzo. He lunges away and makes a dash across the parking lot, pushing Reyes ahead of him and McCree on his heels behind.

The next cluster of bullets ping against Hanzo’s rental as they duck behind it. “Get in,” he barks. Reyes climbs onto the back seat, keeping low, and McCree follows suit as Hanzo throws himself into the driver seat sideways. Glass from the passenger window shatters and spits little shards into his hair.

The engine flares to life. Hanzo gears it into reverse and slams on the gas. McCree swears as they careen backward, the smell of burned rubber souring the air. The car bounces over the curb, and Hanzo sits up to brake, turn, and roar out onto the street.

“Turn left here.” Reyes doesn’t shout; his voice is calm and solid, expecting his authority will go unquestioned.

“Like hell are we--” McCree starts to snarl, interrupted by the screech of the tires as the car veers left. “Hanzo!”

“I do not know this city,” Hanzo says. Reyes tells him to take another turn, and he does. “I have no hope of losing them on my own. If you have any other ideas, please share them.”

“Cut through that alley.” Hanzo yanks the wheel. Behind them, the van clips the corner, scraping on the wall before righting themselves and barrelling forward.

Reyes leans between the front seats, ignoring McCree’s bark of protest. “There’s an intersection with a tight corner a mile from here. Go south.”

He does, the speedometer needle steadily climbing as he tries to gain ground on their pursuers. The van was huge, it would certainly be able to corral and crush them if it caught up. By the time they rocket through the intersection under the glare of a red light, the Mercedes is edging past 80.

“Left now!” Reyes snaps in the middle of the intersection. Hanzo pulls the wheel, the whole vehicle protesting the sudden turn with a scream and shudder. His knuckles turn white keeping control on it. Behind, the van jerks to try to follow. Top heavy and long, the left wheels lift away from the road. The last thing Hanzo sees is the van teetering, several tons of steel balancing on a few inches of rubber, and the screech of metal on concrete echoes behind them.

They put another five minutes of distance between them and ditched the car. “Think I know a hiding place nearby,” McCree says, tucking his gun out of sight, and without any other ideas they follow his lead on foot. Hanzo glances back at the car, trying to calculate the fees and fines he’ll accrue once it gets towed and the damage is found.

They go on foot to a nightclub with dark lights and music that rumbles under Hanzo’s feet. He can already feel a headache coming on, pounding against his skull in time with the beat. But it’s good cover, strobes and smoke and bodies making every individual indiscernible from the rest.

Booths are tucked along the back and left walls, black leather couches bending in U shapes around low tables. Hanzo and McCree flank Reyes in one of the booths, preventing him from any possible escape attempts. “You’d better cough up what the hell’s going on, Reyes. Why on God’s green earth are these people trying to kill me?”

Reyes grunts and waves a waitress over. He orders a port and says nothing else until he has beer in his hand. “If I give you what you want to know, you let me walk.” McCree narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue. “They weren’t trying to kill you at first, they were trying to recruit you. Then my apartment blew up two seconds after you were in it, and they knew you’d seen too much and were trying to cause trouble.”

“ _ You _ blew up your apartment!” McCree snaps.

Reyes shrugs and sips his beer. “Not as far as they’re concerned.”

“Who are ‘they?’” Hanzo interjects to derail McCree’s mounting frustration.

“Soldiers without a war worth their zeal, so they resort to terrorism. Or patriotism, if you asked them. Mostly spec-ops like McCree. They call themselves Talon. They approached me during the court martial, helped me fake my death so no one would come looking for me. Went pretty well, until they set their sights on you. Involving myself directly would have been too risky, so I hired bounty hunters to smuggle you out of there, get you somewhere safer, but  _ someone _ fucked that up well and good.” He tilts his chin and gives Hanzo a pointed look.

“They tried to get a ransom from me,” Hanzo defends.

“Did they? Goddamn mercenaries.” Reyes shakes his head.

“What’re you working with them for in the first place?” McCree demands. “They’re goddamn terrorists, Reyes, this isn’t you.”

He coughs out a humorless laugh. “Oh it isn’t, is it? I put my whole life into the military, gave up everything, recruited whelps like you, and how do they thank me? Slap me with a court martial for something I didn’t do. Even Jack turned his back on me.” He turns his gaze on Hanzo suddenly, sharp and hard, like he did something wrong. “You love him?”

The question, so out of place from the previous conversation, throws Hanzo off. “Yes, I do,” he spits.

Reyes examines him, eyes flicking up and down over his body, sizing him up. “Good,” he grunts. “Keep that in mind, don’t forget it. Not for a second.” Hanzo frowns. How could he forget? Reyes drains his glass. “Now, you gonna let me leave, or is there something else you think you can get from me?”

Hanzo and McCree catch each other’s gazes. He’s right; they have no real reason to keep him here. McCree stands to let Reyes slide out of the booth and straighten his hoodie. “No way in hell they’ll trust me now,” he sighs. “Don’t expect me to be able to help you from now on. You’re on your own.”

He slips into the crowd and vanishes, leaving Hanzo unsettled like he had been abruptly woken from a dream. McCree drops back down, knocking his shoulder against Hanzo’s. “What now?”

“Whether we can take him at his word or not, you must disappear again immediately,” Hanzo mutters, leaning heavy over the table. “I will see what belongings I can recover from the motel, but you cannot wait for that. I will give you what cash I have.”

McCree is silent for a moment. Then, gruffly, “So that's it then.”

Hanzo stares at him. A weary face carved of desert rock, weathered down over years until his eyes sunk deep and his lips pursed when they had no cigarette to cling to. For five years, Hanzo woke up to that face and watched it crack into grins under his fingers. He had been foolish to think he could hang onto something so much a part of the wilderness and keep it healthy and hidden in his industrial kingdom.

“No,” he whispered, then repeated with more certainty, “No. It is not. It cannot be.” He loved McCree, loves McCree, more than he ever thought possible.  _ Don't forget it. _

“Then what? What the hell are we gonna do, Hanzo?” McCree asks, strung out with desperation.

Hanzo licks his lips and waves a waiter down for a cocktail. “I have an idea,” he starts, “But you are not going to like it.”

\---

Going back to Japan without McCree feels empty, meaningless. Staring out the airplane window, he barely recognizes Tokyo. It's just another loud, bright, apathetic city.

He relieves Aiko from Jiro’s care before going home. She snuffles his hands and pants intently. “I hope she did not cause any trouble,” he says, though he can tell from Jiro’s nervous chuckle that she definitely did. Probably chewed on pillows and whined for table scraps.

“She's a sweet dog. I was happy to help.”

Hanzo nods and looks down at her, sitting at his side and leaning against his leg. “You have always been happy to help,” he observes, turning back to Jiro. “It has made you more indispensable than you know, and I'm grateful for it.” He bowed. “Thank you.”

Jiro flounders. Such praise from Shimada Hanzo is not easily won, and he scrambles to bow in return and assure Hanzo to think nothing of it, it's his honor to serve. Walking away with Aiko’s lead in his hand, Hanzo almost wishes he could see the look on Jiro’s face when he realizes Hanzo has transferred all ownership of his business and every yen in his bank account to him.

Hanzo walks home and gets out a suitcase. He leaves behind his suits and ties, choosing only more durable and travel-ready clothing. Staring around the penthouse, he realizes all at once how empty it is, devoid of anything to connect him personally to the space. He had never paid it much mind when all he had to occupy himself was work, and once McCree came into his life, he was the one who had made the apartment a home.

McCree had told him an American saying once, “home is where the heart is.”  _ Don't forget it. _ He wishes he’d understood sooner.

He retrieves McCree’s serape and wraps it around his shoulders, then clips Aiko’s leash to her harness and walks out.

They go to the airport, flying to New York and buying a truck to drive to Philadelphia. He finds the bus stop with relative ease, where they wait on the sidewalk for nearly three hours before the Greyhound they’re waiting for arrives and spills its passengers. Among them is not a baseball cap but a beaten old cowboy hat.

When Aiko sees McCree, she lunges hard enough to nearly tear the lead out of Hanzo’s grip. McCree laughs and stoops over to scratch her ears and kiss the top of her head as she wriggles and whines her exuberance. “Aiko, settle down,” Hanzo orders.

Chuckling, McCree scruffs Aiko’s head and straightens back up. He gives Hanzo’s light luggage a once-over, arching his eyebrows. “Got everything?”

Hanzo steps closer to him and drags his fingers up McCree’s cheek, where the beginnings of a beard are coming back in, fresh and prickly. He leans up on his toes to kiss McCree, uncompromised, free. “Just the necessities,” he answers with a faint smile.

McCree grins and takes his hand. Neither of them know where they would go next, how they would evade the people at their heels, but it doesn’t matter. All they need is each other.

 

-Epilogue-

A siren wails somewhere in the distance. Sirens always put Hanzo on edge; an old habit from days when his high profile meant any criminal activity might connect back to him. He’s anonymous now, cleared of such concerns. He shifts on his feet and draws the collar of his coat up around his neck to shield his ears from the nipping chill. He hates back door duty; nothing to do but think and wait.

He’s watching a thin layer of clouds swallow up stars when a commotion bubbles out from somewhere deep inside the building behind him. Hanzo examines his fingernails, frowning severely at a split nail on his ring finger, and pulls his gloves from his pocket. May as well do what he can to preserve the others. The noise builds, exploding out into the alley when the door slams open. A short man careens through the doorway and down the corridor. Hanzo kicks his shin as he goes by, sending him to the concrete, and straightens the cuff of one glove.

He half-expects the man to stay down, but he’s glad when he scrambles to recover. Hanzo has been waiting out here for nearly an hour, the least he can do is put up a bit of a fight. The figure whirls and throws a desperate fist, which Hanzo parries, then he drives the heel of his hand into his opponent’s nose.

A swift follow-up to the stomach, and he goes down. Hanzo is patting himself down when someone else comes out the door behind him, huffing for breath. The footsteps pull to a stop just behind Hanzo. “About time,” Hanzo snorts.

“Eh, I knew you had it, so I stopped to get a drink,” McCree wheezes, doubling over. Hanzo finds the zip ties in his inner coat pocket.

Rolling the target over with his foot, Hanzo wrestles with his arms and ties his wrists together. He makes a token effort to struggle, but it’s feeble. “And you didn’t bring me one.” Hanzo clicks his tongue in disappointment. He turns to his partner, grabbing his face in both hands and crushing a kiss against his mouth.

McCree chuckles, big hands finding Hanzo’s rear and squeezing, drawing him closer. “Damn, you’re unbelievable,” McCree all but growls. The way his fingers dig into the seat of Hanzo’s pants gives him half a mind to shove McCree against the wall and take him right here. But the pained grunt of their hostage reminds him that this isn’t the time.

He steps out of McCree’s embrace in order to drag the captive to his feet. This man’s bounty will keep them fed and their trailer on the road for at least a month. Somewhere, billions of dollars are at stake as criminal empires battle with the law and with each other, but Hanzo rarely misses it. He has McCree, Aiko, and a truck that keeps them on the move without ever being far from home. That much is more than he ever knew he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa!! wow!!! that's it!!  
> thanks SO much to [Nanibgal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nanibgal) for being my beta, Jag for inspiring this whole thing, and everyone else who's generally been supportive and encouraging, I couldn't have done it without you guys ;;;;  
> this may be the last official installment here on AO3, but I will probably write drabbles and hcs that will end up [ON TUMBLR](https://geckosncats.tumblr.com/) if you want to see more of this AU! come ask questions or chat with me there, I'd love it.  
> THANK YOU FOR READING

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://www.geckosncats.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/geckosnack).
> 
> I have had the immense honor of finding out I got fanart!! Please check it out [here (NSFW)](http://scarmonaspron.tumblr.com/post/155841223807/hey-so-another-fav-of-mine-is-necessities-by), it's absolutely lovely, thank you so much ;;;;


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